Hopeless
by ScarletteStar1
Summary: Reeling from the death of Tom and subsequent stillbirth of her baby, Liz turns to Samar and they are forced to run to safety. Though she tries to escape the one man she believes has caused her such pain, she learns he holds not only the key to her past, but other deep parts of her as well. Eventual Lizzington/Lizvabi. Rated M for... stuff..Disclaimed. I own nothing, nada, zip.
1. Shifted

She pulls her hood over her head as she walks the shop-lined street. It looks like rain.

Ever since her pregnancy and subsequent stillbirth of the baby, she's been different. It's like all of the pieces and parts of her soul were shifted and shaken along with her hormones. Like someone took her apart like a pocket watch, put all the little gears and pins into a tiny silken pouch and shook it up.

She's left bare with nothing but a pale face. Time stands still. There is no need for time. All of the days that turned to weeks and grew into months while the baby was inside of her are over and gone. There is no need for time to tell her anything anymore, because all it possibly could tell her is how long her womb has been emptied of its sacred contents with that menacing tick, tick, tick.

She has no need for time. Everything stopped the minute she held that tiny, fragile body in her arms and felt its pulse slow and stop. Truly at 19 weeks, it was a miracle the heart beat outside of her at all. It was a blessing and a curse to press her lips to its velvet, violet crown and anoint it with her tears.

They tell her that in addition to the grief, she could also be experiencing the hormonal shifts of perinatal depression and anxiety.

But it is not that.

She feels nothing.

Rage has frozen her heart. Despair has made her entirely numb. She prepares to work like a robot, oblivious to the gazes and sighs around her. She needs to work. She needs to catch and kill and conquer.

She is, afterall, a warrior.

If there is one gift that son of a bitch Reddington gave her, it was the case that brought to light the special little whorls and hooks of DNA that make her special, fierce, and savage. She will use this to her advantage.

He may have disappeared, but she will find him. She has learned a thing or two over the past two years, and she will use this knowledge like a scholar to hunt him down and do to him what she should have done months ago when she still had the chance.

When her baby still had a chance.

If only she'd had three or four more weeks. There would have been hope.

He robbed her of hope, and she would make him pay.

She grits her teeth as she ducks into the pawn shop as it starts to rain in a sudden, steady downpour.


	2. Collecting

He descends into the cavernous basement of the building. He walks between the well-dressed man who leads him down, and Dembe who follows behind. It is cooler below the ground and he nestles deeper into his cashmere overcoat, violating but momentarily his steely demeanor.

The well-dressed man leads him into the vault. Keys are turned. A safe-deposit box is extracted from a wall and placed on a table before him.

"I'll leave you to it," says the well-dressed man.

Red turns to the small coffin-like container. He unbuttons his overcoat, and reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket to extract an ancient looking key. He pauses, his hands poised above the box, feeling as though he is doing something akin to grave robbing, down there in the cool underbelly of the bank.

He's always loved Vienna. The music, palaces, women. It has always been a trip for art and romance. 'Not this time,' he thinks and sighs.

He grits his teeth as he plunges the key into the box's skeletal orifice.

Dembe comes up behind him. The bodyguard, who never misses a thing, must have heard Red's exhalation. Perhaps he had also seen Red shiver in his coat on the way down the stairs. Perhaps he could sense the accelerated heartbeat pounding away beneath the brushed cotton of his shirt.

"Raymond," he says softly. "You do not have to do this. There are other ways."

Ignoring him, Red turns the key with a quaint click and opens the tomb of the safe deposit box. He extricates the contents with one single sweep of his hand, pocketing it swiftly inside the depths of his overcoat.

Ignoring Dembe's plea, Red growls, "Let's go."

Faithfully, Dembe follows him back up the stairs. Both of their faces are impassive as they climb back up into the warmth of a golden, Viennese afternoon.


	3. Everything

He extends his arms and takes both of Samar's hands in his own, greeting her warmly enough. But his face is drawn and gray. He looks wanting for sleep and hydration, she thinks. He's probably been up for days. Drinking. Smoking. Pacing the wrathful corridors of his mind.

"Samar," he utters. She notes that he has used her first name as opposed to the more formal "Agent Navabi" with which he usually greets her. His voice usually bounces on the last syllable of her last name, as though he enjoys the way it sounds. But today he has dispensed with both formalities and humor. Recent events have made them familiar, if not casual. "I trust you are well. We don't have much time."

He wants to ask. She can sense the question in his entire body, aching and awkward. She takes mercy on him.

"Physically, she is recovering," she says, trying to sound reassuring. "Her doctors say she is in good shape and there is no reason why she couldn't try again in the future."

He grunts at this with a nod of his head. He turns on his heel and walks the span of the narrow aisle of books. The smell of a library has always brought him comfort, if not joy. Pages and pages of knowledge and imagination radiating their warm aroma of time and space. It's an organic smell, like soil. It's not like a department store where artificial concoctions offend the nose, or in a cafe where the mingling of delicacies is utterly distracting. As he turns and strides back towards Samar, he catches the musk of her perfume emanating from the "V" of flesh where her jacket and blouse are open. The scent draws his attention to her collar bones and the slight peek of her cleavage.

"Reddington," she says, snapping him back to the aisle of books. "She blames you." Her voice is that of a surgeon. It is completely calm, unalarming. And yet it slices into him with precision. He appreciates this quality of hers, despite the exquisite pain it brings. It was one of the reasons he chose her for the task at hand, one of the reasons he is certain of his trust for the former Mossad operative. She continues. "I haven't figured out what she is planning, yet. But there is a plan. Of that I am certain."

"I would expect no less from my Lizzie." He grumbles this truth with clenched fists at his sides.

"I'm afraid she is not 'your Lizzie' any longer," Samar replies. Her tone is bland enough, but her eyebrow is raised in an almost submissive manner. She feels the need to let him know this information, but she is not certain how it will be received.

He looks up, eyebrows raised to match hers, his mouth opened as though surprised. But he's not surprised. He knows all of this. He did not need to risk a meeting with Samar to learn that Lizzie has been damaged beyond recognition and she is blaming the only soul who was only trying to protect her best interest.

Of course his gesture had not been entirely altruistic. There had been a delight as he squeezed the life out of Tom Keen. A satisfaction akin to watching honey be pressed from it's dripping comb. But the sweetness had been short lived. The warmth of Tom's crushed neck was still pulsing in the crook of his arm when Lizzie discovered what he had done. She'd come to find him and the stress of her grief and rage had sent her into premature labor. As she collapsed in his arms, her eyes told him that she knew the fate of her baby, could already feel it slipping out of her and it was far too soon.

"You've taken everything from me," she gasped as he carried her to the car. Even with the pregnancy pounds blossoming on her she was still light as a child in his arms. "Just let us die here," she'd cried, her voice ragged with pain and fury as she struggled in his arms. "There's nothing left! You've taken it all away from me."

He'd taken everything from her.

Her last words to him.

He shakes his head as if to clear it of this memory, comes back to the library, back to Samar.

"I'll be away for some time," he says. "But I'll always be within 12-24 hours away if my presence is needed." He hands her a small card with a name and number scribbled on it. "My associate," he says, "will know how to reach me at all times." Samar takes the card, glances at it and tucks it into her pocket, then returns to her perfectly still pose. Their business is, as yet, unfinished.

He reaches into the pocket of his coat and takes out a cube of polished wood, small enough to fit in his hand. It looks like nothing. It looks like a child's building block, but its surface is shiny and smooth.

"This is it," he says. He extends the block on his palm to Samar. "This is everything."

"Doesn't look like much," she says, taking it and turning it over in her hands. "How does it work?"

"She will be able to figure it out," he says.

"Reddington," Samar begins and he knows exactly what she is going to say next. "She won't take it. I'm afraid she'll accept nothing from you."

"Then don't tell her it is from me," he says. "When the time comes. . ." His voice trails off as Dembe appears around the corner.

"Raymond," he says. "Everything is ready for you."

"Excellent," Red replies. He turns to Samar. "You understand what you are to do?"

"Yes," she says nodding once.

"Thank you, Samar. Your loyalty, discretion, and assistance will not be forgotten."

"You don't need to thank me. We would do anything for her."

"Even still," he says. He takes her hand in both of his, raises it to his lips and kisses it, then squeezes it before returning it to her. Then he turns from her and strides soundlessly away, inhaling the earthy and delicious smell of the books one last time. There is no comfort or joy in this scent today.


	4. Nothing

She sits at the meager desk in the motel room, her laptop before her. She's not bothered to put on more than her cami and underpants. The curtains are closed. It is dark. She is alone.

Alone.

Empty.

A sob rises up to gag her, but she chokes it down. She pecks the down arrow through her inbox. There is nothing there of interest. Nothing helpful. Nothing illuminating.

Nothing.

Her wet hair drips down her back in a cool trickle. She runs through the list of things she could do to keep busy. Running. Drinking. Playing solitaire.

She could nip out to the diner on the corner for a sandwich or some coffee, but her appetite is less than robust these days. It seems there is nothing optimal to distract her from the scene that intrudes her thoughts and plays out over and over.

"You killed him," she had stated matter of factly that day when they met in his apartment.

"Yes," he replied with a small nod of his head, equally matter of fact. He slid his hat off his head and into his arm.

"How?" She looked wildly around the room, trying to calculate just what he was telling her.

"I did it to save you," he floundered. She hadn't even stopped to note that Raymond Reddington was practically choking on his words before her, stumbling over them like a fool. He had almost seemed afraid in that moment, she realizes this now. But at the time she was too focused on her questions and the answers she would get.

"No!" She screamed. "I didn't ask you why! I asked you how. How did you kill my fiancee?"

"Lizzie," he began. "That man was not your fiancee. That man was no one to you but an enemy. He was an imposter who meant to do you grave harm."

"He was everything to me! He changed for me. We were going to be a family. He had changed!" She clutched her swollen belly as if to elucidate her point. "You murdered the father of my child! You took away my family! It wasn't enough for you to kill my father? You had to take everything from me?"

Once upon a time he'd revealed to her that he could live with himself and his deeds by saving her life. Could he actually be so deluded as to think he was protecting her here and now?

"Lizzie," he said taking a step towards her. Her shoulders had slumped slightly and she was breathing hard, her hand still on her abdomen as though she was a marathon runner trying to rub off a cramp. He took another step towards her and extended his hand, palm up. He did not dare to touch her. "You have to listen to me. Since you revealed yourself to be Masha Rostova, there is a dark legion of forces attempting to capture you. Tom planned to sell you off to the highest bidder. First chance he got, that's what he was going to do. I wouldn't, I couldn't allow that to happen to you."

She straightened suddenly in a sharp, angry motion. "You lie," she hissed.

"I know this is hard for you to hear. It isn't easy for me to tell you. Please. I'm begging you. You have to believe me. My life without you would be nothing. I would be but a heap of ash blown away on the wind."

"Well, we couldn't have that, could we Reddington? You, poor, narcissistic sociopath! Better you make the man I adore into a heap of ash and cast him into oblivion." She was panting with fury. She barely got the words out.

"Elizabeth," Red said sternly. "You need to relax. This isn't good for the baby."

"Like you care about my baby," she sobbed. "You know what would have been good for my baby? Huh? Having a father would have been good for my baby. Let's stop pretending you have ever had my well being in mind while you have manipulated my life over the past two years. Let's stop pretending your connection to me is anything more than the enormous mind-fuck it is and has always been!"

The cool demeanor with which she had entered the room had melted and she was crying hotly against her fist. She looked up at him to see him standing there with a strange expression on his face, as though he was wincing in pain. He looked oddly vulnerable and she hated him for it. She remembered the resolve with which she had given him the fulcrum and then turned on her heel. It had been over. Then he was gunned down in the street and there she was with her hand in his chest, trying to stop the blood flow, holding his heart nearly in her hand. How she hated the softening of her own heart in that moment, the desperation she felt that he should not die, not only because he had answers she so desperately needed, but because she cared for him.

Well no longer. She stood there with her hand on her unborn child and she resolved to put an end to this twisted thing. She was going to kill him.

It was as she slipped her hand around to unholster her weapon, she felt the searing pain that sliced through her abdomen. She looked up with a gasp of shock at Reddington, thinking for just a moment that he had beat her to the draw and shot her first. As time slowed, she realized the gushing between her legs. It didn't stop or slow. She doubled over in a pain she'd never known before and saw the puddle of crimson on the floor between her legs.

"No," she whispered. Her head started to numb and swirl.

"Lizzie," he called, but her ears did not want to let his voice in and he sounded very far away. She was about to lose consciousness. She knew this. She was hemorrhaging in a helplessly fast current. He caught her before she hit the floor.

"Let me go you bastard!" She screamed, coming to her senses at his touch. She writhed in his arms, longing for the spot on the floor where she would have landed had he not caught her. "Let me go! You've taken everything from me," she gasped as he carried her to the car. "Just let us die here," she'd cried, her voice ragged with pain and grief as she struggled against him. "There's nothing left! You've taken it all away from me."

She'd lost consciousness before they even got to the car.

She woke many hours later in a hospital room, a stranger's blood swimming in her veins and no baby swimming in her womb.

Alone.

Empty.

The nurses told her she had been delirious. In addition to the blood loss that nearly killed her, she'd had an infection and rampant fever. That was when she had dreamed of Tom meeting her in front of the church on their wedding day. Their wedding that never happened in real life, played out in her fever dream as he led her down the aisle and gave her away to a blonde woman holding a baby on the altar. How she screamed as the woman dragged her away and handed Tom her baby.

For a moment, as she recalled this dream, she half wondered if Reddington had been telling her the truth. He'd sworn never to lie to her. But nothing made sense and her head swam with the sedatives and painkillers they had given her so she couldn't figure it out.

Part of her expected him to come walking into her hospital room with a bunch of flowers, make a few jokes, tell her a story that somehow circled back to the situation they were in. But no. She was done listening to stories at his knee. She would have none of it. He could give her nothing to ease this pain. There was nothing he could say to make her forgive him.

Nothing.

In the end, it had been Samar who came with flowers and a card from the rest of the staff. "We're all so sorry, Liz," she said. Her normally impassive face looked wrought with vicarious trauma.

"Thank you," Liz had said, feeling it was an absurd reply but not knowing what else to say.

"If you need anything, Liz, anything. . . we're all here for you." Samar took Liz's hand in her own and squeezed it. The warmth of her hand made Liz realize how cold her own fingers were.

It was the last human comfort and contact she had experienced.

She slams her laptop shut and walks to the kitchenette of her room. She uncorks a bottle of wine, sloshes some into a plastic cup, and tosses it back. Looking around, she locates her jeans hanging over the back of a chair. She digs her cell phone out of the pocket, contemplates putting the jeans back on but throws them back over the chair. She takes her phone, bottle and cup to the unmade bed and climbs in, pulling the sheet and blanket up over herself.

She thinks of Samar holding her hand and stares at her phone for the better part of an a hour, intermittently sipping her wine. Unbidden tears slide down her face in cool trickles.

After she has finished a third glass, she presses on her phone and dials the number for the one person she feels she can trust.


	5. Reflection

Dearest Lizzie,

There will be no forgiveness, I know, for the damage you believe I have wrought in your life. There are no words to express how sorry I am for the loss of your baby. It is something that will change you forever, alter the very pattern of who and why you are. I know this to be one of the greatest truths.

Over the past two years, I have watched you garner strength you never knew you had. Sam used to send me letters about all your deeds and misdeeds and he would say in every one how strong-willed you were. You have grown into a woman who is strong not only in will, but in every possible way. I have watched this strength surprise you, time and time again. It will not fail you now. It is infinite, your strength. It is portable inside of you and goes with you to every new, awful, and challenging situation to which you must travel.

When you wake, you will not feel strong. Physically, you will feel weak from the pain and transfusions and medication they have given you to save your life. This physical discomfort will be but a whisper compared to what you will feel aching in the fibers of your soul.

I write this as you writhe in fevered agony in your hospital bed. Never in my life have I felt more helpless as I have these last hours at your bedside. I've kissed your burning forehead and whispered in your ear that it will be alright. I've told you a hundred times that I love you. Indeed, my dear girl, if love could save, I would have rescued both you and your tiny child. My love would have spared you the pain and loss of this terrible trial through which you must fight.

Though I will not be there when you wake, as I know beyond a doubt you will not have me and will wish me dead, my undying adoration will be always within your reach. It is but a paltry token, I know, in light of recent events.

There is no price that could be awarded to you to assuage this wretched trauma. Before our Jennifer was born, my wife lost a set of twins. They were born too soon and lived for several days before we watched them breathe their final breaths. The sorrow of losing them nearly tore us apart. Neither of us could bear the pain, either separately or together. The only thing that saved our marriage was my departure to sea for close to a year. Were you conscious and speaking to me, I would share with you stories of my time at sea. But those are not to be shared today, if ever.

When I came home, Jennifer was conceived and we were able to begin anew. It was a cruel pleasure, however, as I lost both my wife and my daughter to the life into which I was brutally forced, not too long after our Jenny's eighth birthday. I have been on an odyssey ever since.

When you wake, you will be forever altered. We are so similar, you and I, Lizzie. You will not want to acknowledge or admit this, but it is true. It is one of the many reasons I feel such deep and abiding kinship with you. When you were but a preschooler, I looked in your eyes and knew I'd not only met my match, but the other half of my very soul. It is the only half of me about which I care a whit, and partly why I have survived so craftily low these many years. I realized this selfish urge for self preservation when you came to me in the box and I felt our halves click together as neatly as key and lock. You made me whole and opened a door within me that had been snugly shut for eons and behind which I had hid in darkness. Emerging to bask in the warm glow of you brought to light the very importance of my own survival to keep you safe.

In reflection, I know it also to be true that my physical reemergence in your life was unavoidable. What had been set in motion by Tom and Berlin was mounting to a deadly peak. There have been moments of selfish pleasure I have taken in your company, but my task is and always was to keep you from danger. I beg of you now to understand this fact, even as you curse the day we met.

And so once again, I have carried you out of peril into more peril.

While I am desperately sorry for the loss of your baby, I can not apologize to you for dispatching that louse who called himself Tom. He meant to do you harm, as he had done before. He was not worthy of your trust or forgiveness. Someday you will understand, even if the day never comes when you can thank me.

I will not rest until I am able to prove this to you beyond the shadow of your doubt. You are possibly the only person in the world for whom I would walk to the ends of earth simply to lie parched and starving at your feet, and rasp pleas for mercy from my dehydrated throat.

I will also never be sorry for carrying you out of the apartment to safety. I could no more have let you bleed to death than harm an innocent lamb.

These two items are perhaps the only limitations in how far I am willing to go for you.

You should know I saw you reach for your gun. I was prepared to die by your hand with your name on my lips, as I was the night you saved me from the auction. Yes, it was your name I uttered, your name that brought me peace and acceptance as Yaabari was about to pull the trigger. There have been many nights I sat alone and dreamed of such a sentence to deliver me from the treachery of my miserable life. As I reflect on all of this, I realize it would be a salvation better than any that I truly deserve to die by your hand with the image of your lovely face imprinted on my brain and your sweet name scenting my dying breath.

But my work was not, and is not yet done, and until it is time for me to take that dying breath, I will toil to secure your safety. It is a vow I solemnly swore decades ago and will honor until death do us part.

You shared with me your fantasy when we were on the run and hiding out in the theater. How clearly I can remember you holding that frothy dress up under your pert, little chin and telling me about the child who would hold hands between you and your beloved. I said it was as it should be, even as it tore my heart in two. You will have this, Lizzie. I have not robbed you of love and a family. I promise, you will have all your dreams come to reality someday, but it was not meant to be with Tom.

And now to the business at hand:

The issue of your safety continues to be one of tantamount priority. There will be instructions and contingencies sent to you. While I will respect your space and keep my distance, I shall not be far and as always, if ever you are in need, I and all of my resources will be at your service.

Although I expect you to accept nothing from me, there will be deeds to some properties sent to you which you can sell for your own profit. There will also be various accounts and other items you may liquidate as needed. When the time comes to run- and the time will come, Lizzie- you must run, hard and fast without looking back. You must remember your strength and push past the pain. You must run and fight.

My time is running short, as you will soon regain consciousness. I will take my leave. I ask nothing of you now but that you hear and consider what I am trying to tell you. Take care of yourself. Be safe.

You will forever have this old heart on which you cut your teeth.

It is yours, and yours alone,

R.R.


	6. Call

"Hello?"

"Hey. It's me."

"Liz? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

Samar knows Liz is most definitely not fine. How could she possibly be fine after what she has been through in the last month? They all knew Tom deserved to die, but it still had been traumatic for Liz. She had loved him blindly and beyond reason. Reddington had had Samar chasing around after Liz and Tom ever since Liz was exonerated and the pair reunited. Samar had been almost afraid when Red expressed the fury of not only his terror for Liz's safety, but his alarming jealousy of the younger man, one afternoon in a secret meeting with her. He had nearly started to lose his grip, so frantic was he to keep Elizabeth safe. He had been so sure of himself, so certain Liz would not only understand, but forgive.

It seems ridiculous for Liz to be telling Samar that she is fine, almost to the point of psychosis.

There is a moment of silence during which Samar considers the package Reddington had given her. She will somehow have to convince Liz to take it and use it, whatever it is, or whatever it contains. Reddington had been secretive about that.

If he had been secretive about the package, he was entirely clear when it came to his directive to Samar. "Keep her safe," he had ordered. "Keep her close and keep her safe."

"When are you coming back to work?" Samar asks. If she only knew how Samar had been stalking her for the past week and a half Liz wouldn't be calling. She would be furious.

"I'm not sure. I hope soon. I'm going out of my skull from boredom. But I went to the shrink again and he has not given me the green light to return. It's frustrating, but. . ." her voice trails off. "Listen, are you busy right now?"

"Busy? Hardly. It's ten o'clock at night. I was going to do some reading and go to bed."

"Oh."

"Did you need something?"

"It's just, well, I haven't been sleeping. And there's really no one for me to talk to."

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No. No. You should go to bed. I'll be fine."

The plaintive and childlike loneliness in Liz's voice sears through Samar's shell. She's gotten close to Liz these last months. A sad smile tickles the corners of her lips. She twirls a black curl that has fallen from her messy bun, then catches herself. She hasn't done that since she was a child herself. . . since she used to talk in furtive whispers on the phone to Saida.

"Liz. You don't have to be alone. Do you want me to come over?"

"I wouldn't mind."

"I'm on my way."

Samar throws back the covers on her bed, grabs her jeans and pulls on a sweater. Out of habit she reaches for her gun and realizes she has locked it in the safe next to the bed. She opens the safe with her thumbprint, grabs the weapon and tucks it into the waistband of her jeans. She glances momentarily at the nondescript cube Reddington had bestowed upon her.

But it doesn't seem like the right time. Not yet.


	7. Response

"Elizabeth Keen," Samar says. "Are you. . . drunk?"

"Who me? No. Well, a little buzzed maybe." Liz has opened the door for Samar in naught but her cami and underpants. She slurs her words ever so slightly. If Samar wasn't such a slave to details, she might not even notice the miniscule shift of balance in Liz's posture. Liz's cheeks are flushed from whatever she's been drinking. She opens the door a bit wider for Samar, "Come on in. Ignore the mess."

Samar walks past Liz into the motel room. Liz has been staying in this pit since she was discharged from the hospital. It serves a dual purpose, or so she thinks. First, she couldn't bear to go back to the apartment where she and Tom had reunited, planned their wedding, and nurtured the dreams of their family, so she is avoiding the memories and pain, or at least she is attempting to.

Second, she is eluding Reddington. She doesn't want him watching her, stalking her, protecting her. So, she is hiding herself away from him, or so she thinks.

"Would you like a glass of wine? Or a plastic cup, really. I haven't bought any stemware yet," Liz mutters as she walks over to the mini fridge.

"Ok," says Samar. "What are we drinking?"

"There is red wine, white wine, and also a case of champagne that was supposed to be for the wedding. I'm consuming it as part of my therapeutic closure." She says the last word- closure- with her fingers making air quotes, and a bitter face, her lips curled around the cruelness of it.

"Champagne?" Samar says, understanding the terrible irony. Liz was supposed to have so much to celebrate, and yet here she is in this dismal place, all alone. Reddington would throw a fit if he could see this. Samar pictures him throwing Liz over his shoulder and carrying her out of the motel in her underwear, not caring that she is kicking and screaming in protest. She makes a mental note to work on getting Liz out of this room and into a brighter habitat.

"Champagne it is," Liz says cheerily enough and reaches into the fridge for a bottle.

"No, Liz. That's not what I meant. I don't want to drink your champagne. It was just surprising, or strange to imagine you drinking your wedding champagne alone in here."

"Then let's not drink alone," she says. She starts to peel the foil off of the cork. She struggles with the cork for a bit. Samar takes off her coat and looks for a place to put it down. She drapes it next to Liz's jeans on the arm of the crude, wooden chair. Liz grunts and bites her lip.

"Can I help you with that, Keen?"

"Ok. Sure," Liz hands the bottle to Samar, and trips over her own feet as she does so.

"You sure you're not drunk enough already?"

Liz looks up under the dark fringe of her lashes. She smiles and says, "I dunno. Maybe?" Samar smiles back at her as the cork pops. If it all wasn't so desperately sad, it would be adorable and hilarious. She pours frothy bubbles into two plastic cups. Liz takes a big gulp and hiccups. "I did have a few glasses of wine earlier," Liz concedes. "I guess maybe I lost track. I find that's what happens when you drink alone."

"You don't have to be alone," Samar says, her voice even and low. "There are people who care very much about you." Samar considers the safe in her apartment, and the package from Reddington. For as much damage as he has wrought in the past two years, there is nothing he would not do for Elizabeth. "Take care of my Lizzie," she hears Reddington growl, even now.

"Do you want to watch a movie? I think there is a Hitchcock marathon on some channel here," Liz fiddles with the TV remote and accidentally spills some of her champagne. Samar can't help but laugh as Liz helplessly swipes at the drops that have fallen on her cami.

"We can watch TV if you want," Samar says.

"See? Rebecca is on. Have you ever seen it? I love this movie. Joan Fontaine is flawless. I always wanted to be a blonde like her. But then when I was a blonde I found out it really wasn't that much fun."

"I never figured you for a classic movie buff, Keen."

"My adoptive father, Sam, and I used to watch them every weekend. I wouldn't call myself a buff. I'm actually not even sure if I enjoy them all that much, but they bring me a weird comfort. I think maybe it's the familiarity."

"Makes sense," Samar says. She looks around her for some place to sit and ends up sitting down next to Liz on the end of the bed. "How are you? Really?"

"I'm furious. Frustrated. Devastated. Bored out of my mind. A little bit of everything really," she looks down and suddenly seems to notice she's sitting there in only her underwear. She grabs a pair of pajama pants from their crumpled nest on the floor and pulls them over her lean legs. Samar notices how thin and pale Liz looks. She's lost the pregnancy weight that had made her look so soft and given her a glow, and now looks almost translucent and angular, though no less beautiful. "I'm dying to go back to work," Liz continues. "I need something to do."

"And you will come back. When you are ready," Samar says. Liz rolls her eyes. "You've been through a lot. We wouldn't want you to come back before you're ready."

"Yeah," she snaps. "I get it." She tosses back the rest of the champagne in her cup. She hops up from the bed and shuffles over to grab the bottle of champagne. She refills both their cups and sits back down on the bed next to Samar. "Anyway, I'm sick of talking about it. I'm sick of people not knowing how to talk to me about it. That's one of the worst parts, you know, how people have completely lost their ability to talk with me in a normal way. I feel like a circus freak or some other oddity in a dark tent in the back of a carnival that people come by to gawk at. So my weird and obsessive benefactor murdered my ex-husband-fiancee? So I gave birth to a baby at 19 weeks who died after only a couple breaths in my arms? So what? Get over it and stop staring."

"You are not a circus freak," Samar sighs. She places a hand on Liz's arm that is meant to be reassuring, but when Liz turns to look back at her, Samar notices her hands tremble on Liz's soft skin.

"Thank you, Samar." Liz exhales gratefully. She takes Samar's hand in her own and squeezes it, bringing it up over her heart and pressing it to her. "You have no clue how much that means to me. It's like you're the only person I can really talk to."

Samar clears her throat and takes an indulgent sip of her champagne. "Anytime. Really."

"Well, enough about me," Liz says and releases Samar's hand. She scampers back on the bed so she is lying propped up by pillows. She pats the space next to her, and Samar toes off her shoes before climbing up to the head of the bed. "How are things with you? How are things with Ressler?"

"Ugh," groans Samar, rolling her eyes and head back. "There is nothing going on with Ressler. That was a one-time mistake, not to be repeated."

"I'm sorry," Liz offers.

"Oh don't be. We got caught up in a moment and it happened, but it really shouldn't have."

"I feel like it is partially, or entirely, my fault. If I hadn't called and asked you to help me that morning. . . "

"Not at all. Having you call me that morning was one of the best things that happened for me. I was happy to help you. It meant a lot, you know, that you called me. That you trusted me."

"I did," Liz says quietly. "And I do." For a while they do not talk as they watch Laurence Olivier drive Joan Fontaine down the coast of Monte Carlo. "I'm afraid you broke poor Aram's heart, though," Liz says finally.

"Yes. I do feel sorry about Aram being hurt. But truth be told, neither Aram nor Ressler are my type."

"Oh yeah?" Liz yawns. Her eyes are half closed and her lashes cast a shadow under her eyes, making the purple shadows even deeper. She looks like she is about to pass out. It wouldn't be the worst thing for her, Samar thinks. She needs sleep. Samar watches as her breath slows and deepens, but then Liz has a reflexive jerk and she is wide awake again.

"Liz, you should get some sleep." Samar takes both of their cups and places them on the night stand. "I can get out of your way."

"Please don't leave yet, Samar. Just a little longer?"

"Of course. But you need your rest to gather your strength. Look at you. You're frail as a doll."

Liz laughs sleepily at this. "Yes. I'm a doll. Or a puppet more like. At least that's what Reddington thought I was."

"Have you heard from him?"

"Reddington? God no." In her current state of mild inebriation, Liz does not think to ask Samar why she would ask her about Red. Samar bites her lip, wondering if she should tell Liz about the meeting and the package. But then Liz's hand is reaching out for Samar's, and it is a welcome distraction from thoughts of Reddington. Anyway, Liz is drunk and it is not the time. Not yet. Samar clutches Liz's hand, and feels a swelling of emotions in her chest that she has not felt in well over a decade.

"I'll stay as long as you like," Samar sighs.

"Mmmm, thanks," Liz says. "So, if Aram and Ressler aren't your type, who is?"

Samar feels her breath catch in her throat and she turns to answer Liz, but finds she has drifted off to sleep. Samar reaches up with the unheld hand and brushes the hair off of Liz's forehead. And almost without even realizing she is doing it, she brings Liz's fingers to her lips and kisses them before she takes her leave of the tiny motel room.


	8. Prayer

Dearest Elizabeth,

I write to you from a pew in the Duomo di Milano. I can tell you this because I won't be here for much longer. My feet have barely walked the streets of one city for longer than 36 hours since I left you. I suppose I should be exhausted, and maybe I am, but there is too much to be done.

And so I roam the earth, toiling, dragging a heaviness with me like Jacob Marley and his miles of chain. They are chains of my own creation, forged from decades of misdeeds. In helping you, or in doing what I imagined was protecting you, I thought perhaps the leaden links would begin to disappear. Indeed, looking in your eyes I felt a lightness I hadn't known in nearly 30 years. I felt it the very first time you came to me in the box. There I was pinned down in actual chains, and I felt freer than I'd ever been. I felt it again sitting across from you in the restaurant in Vancouver, and again when I allowed my hand to stroke your hair when I found you in the Stewmaker's cabin. Lizzie, saving your life is the only thing that has allowed me to live mine.

There are so many things I want to tell you, to share with you. So, I have been writing these letters. Some I send to your PO box and others I tear and cast into the fire. Others still, I have watched flutter on the wind like gulls above the sea, until they touch down in the waves and I know the ink has been smeared into the ancient salts and carried away with the currents.

In these missives, I have told you everything- who you are and what you are to me, what you have become to me. I have told you about your mother. I have told you about the things I want to do and experience with you, and the things I want to do to you. . .

It is not fair to burden you with any of my fantasy right now, as you are grieving and angry. Know only that I adore and miss you with each unworthy fiber of my being. Every breath I take now is merely a means to the end of saving and seeing your lovely face again.

I'm afraid that Milan is not much of a city compared to the rest of Italy, but if you were here with me it would be lovelier than any other. I've taken to coming into churches, in whatever city I find myself, so I can bow my head and whisper your name as though in prayer. Indeed, it is the only prayer I pray. It is a prayer suited for such a cathedral, which took nearly six centuries to finish and is one of the largest in the world. Milan might be the armpit of Italy, but this church is a palace, a place of heaven on earth. And though there is nowhere on the planet where I can find succor, seek though I may, the language of your name in my mouth brings me an odd sensation of calm, if only for a moment.

Were you here with me, we would wander la Galleria, arm in arm with a bottle of champagne between us. We would meander its stalls of jewelry and bread and scarves taking long pulls of champagne. We could walk the streets of boutiques and I would buy you anything you wanted. The people here are friendly, warm, hospitable. And though they are quite religious, they are also very romantic. They would not bat an eye or mind a bit as I would push you up against a building down some cobblestone alley and kiss you, long and deep and unabashed, the way we were meant to kiss.

I wish you were here with me. I wish I had more of you than simply your name whispered in solemn and desperate prayer, and yet I know even that is far more than I deserve. I am wretched with my longing for you. Sleep eludes me, which is perhaps cruelest of all because I lose the chance of seeing you in the cinema of my brain's dreams.

My mind continues to roll over the words of Beethoven to his Immortal Beloved, as I write to you on this dingy page. He said, "Oh continue to love me, never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved." Indeed, Lizzie, you have misjudged me. I know I have hurt you, although it was the last intention I ever had. If only I could kneel before you, beg you to reconsider and overrule the judgement you have cast upon me, for I never meant to do you harm. I will slave until the end of time for just that opportunity. Indeed, my heart is faithful and has never diverted from its steadfast path towards you, the only home I have ever known.

Hopefully these letters are finding you well. The time is coming, Elizabeth. I trust Samar has given you the item with which I entrusted her. Instructions will come in due time. Should you need anything, she knows how to reach me, and I will be at your elbow in but an instant. We will fight and then we will know peace. After that, you can decide what you want, and you can do with me as you will.

Until then, my love, I will see you in the stars and touch your name on my lips as prayer, as lullaby, as my only vow.

"Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever ours."

-R.R.


	9. Roaming

Samar can't remember the last time she spent an entire day roaming a museum, let alone having cool, white wine and hunks of cheese and bread for lunch next to an indoor waterfall, across from a beautiful woman.

She was surprised when Liz called and asked her to spend Saturday at the National Gallery. She continues to be surprised throughout the day that she is out and about with her. Truth be told, she's not necessarily an art fanatic. She tells Liz as much as they stand before an exhibit of an entire shark suspended in a tank of formaldehyde.

"How exactly is this 'art,'" she asks.

Liz stifles a laugh which echoes anyway in the vaulted gallery. "To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I don't actually know that much about art."

"Really?" Samar asks, looking incredulously at Liz. "Then why did we come here?"

"Well," Liz begins with upturned eyebrows and a small smile. "I do like it here. I love the feeling of being lost in the galleries. I've been coming here alone a lot since I lost the baby," she swallows hard, and her smile fades.

Over the past few days, Samar has noticed how quickly moods pass across Liz's face, much like clouds across a sky as they cover the sun and signal a storm. Liz continues, putting an almost artificial brightness into her tone, "I decided I would try coming with some company and see if I liked it as much."

"And?"

"And I am very much enjoying your company." Liz puts a hand on Samar's shoulder for a moment. They walk away from the shark. They start down a hallway lined with marble statues that look cool and satiny. "Besides, you seemed like the type who would like art."

"I have to confess, I know very little about art," Samar laughs. She wonders if the last time she was actually in a gallery was on the school trip to the Iranian Art Museum nearly two decades ago. She remembers it was the first time she and Saida held hands as they toured the gallery of black and white, ink prints, giggling at how they looked like mere scribbles to the teenage eye. Shaking this memory off, she adds, "But if you need to know anything about Israeli counter-terrorism, I'm your girl."

Samar does not care to add that she already knows Liz has been coming to the National Gallery for weeks, and that she has never really been alone as she has cruised the exhibits and taken her lunch by the underground waterfall. She does not tell Liz that she has seen her dabbing at tears as she stands before Degas' Little Dancer. She does not mention that she already knows Liz is drawn to the painting of The White Girl by Whistler, or that Liz has spent much time sitting in front of the nautical paintings. She allows herself to experience it all as though for the first time, and in a way it is the first time.

After their lunch, and before meandering the sculpture gallery, they use the Ladies Room. Samar is washing her hands when she sees Liz adjusting her shirt and sees the weapon tucked into the back of her pants.

"Keen!" Samar hisses, grabbing aggressively for a paper towel.

"What?"

Samar pointedly looks at the spot where Liz is concealing her gun. "Where did you get that? You are not supposed to carry."

Liz steps a bit closer to Samar and lowers her voice, just in case. "I got it at a pawn shop a few weeks ago. It helps me feel safe. Why are you so surprised?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you are packing an illegal firearm in a museum?"

"I also have a knife strapped to my boot under my right pant leg, if you really must know. Come on. Like you aren't armed right here and now?" They speak in whispers and have come very close to one another. Samar puts both of her hands squarely on Liz's shoulders.

"Elizabeth, you are safe with me. Do you understand that?" Her voice is low, almost sultry, aiming at sounding comforting, but her face is stone serious. Liz brings her hands up to Samar's elbows.

"Thank you. I appreciate it. Really. But I also need to protect myself." They consider one another, then Liz turns to fiddle with her hair in the mirror. "I do feel safe with you, Samar," she says gazing at her through the reflection. "I do."

"Good. I hope so." Samar stands there feeling both frustrated and helpless. What had started as a lovely day has suddenly turned dark and stormy. As they meander the sculpture garden, she decides she has to tell Liz.

"Keen, there is something I need you to know."

"Oh yeah? What is it?" Liz looks up into Samar's face, squinting a little in the sun. She looks calm, more peaceful than she has looked in weeks. She's still not sleeping, and she's still drinking too much, and she's still staying in that god awful motel room, but right at this moment she looks relaxed and confident, almost like her old self.

Samar finds herself choking on the words she was going to say, incapable of puncturing this moment of serenity for either of them.

She'll bring her the package tonight. It has to happen. Liz trusts her. If she allows things to go much further, it is going to devastate Liz when she discovers for whom Samar is working, and why. If she allows things to go much further, they are both going to wind up hurt, because Samar knows Liz will never forgive her.

"I just wanted you to know how nice this is. I know it's happened in kind of unorthodox circumstances, but it's been wonderful hanging out with you, Liz."

"You've been such a good friend to me, Samar. Honestly I don't know what I would have done these last couple weeks without you." Liz puts her arm under Samar's and they walk a few paces together like that, their shoulders brushing against one another in the sun.

a ** _/n: thanks so much for reading this. and thank you for your generous comments. i love comments so please feel free to let me know what you are thinking of this story... if you had thought this was going to be fluffy, i apologize for the darkness that is about to come, but the name of the story is Hopeless. xoxo..._**


	10. Burning

He's not a man who cries.

He's not a man prone to outbursts of foolish sentimentality. He is not impetuous or impulsive. He's not a man who sits in the dark, alone, and drops his face into the cradle of his hands. No.

Even in rage, he is precise, deliberate, intentional. He is a man who walks slowly, still dressed in the most expensive tuxedo pants, shirt and vest, blood spattered though they may be, and squeezes off rounds from a shotgun as the world crumbles into madness around him. He is a man whose pulse does not quicken as he strides across a prison yard in the world's blackest black site and drives demons back to hell so that he might retrieve love and light from its fiery depths.

He is a man who can wait without breaking a sweat. He is a man who can sit and hold steady for hours on end, days if necessary, like a hunter in the brush.

He is not a man who burns wildly out of control. He is a man who smolders.

He is not a man who quakes in the stillness, whose hands shake and squeeze open and shut around the air. He is not a man who paces off the hours of night with trembling in his gut. No. He is not this man.

Or so he tries to tell himself.

He urges himself to pull it together even as he covers his mouth with his palm and whispers her name, the four syllables creating little puffs of air in his hand. He bites the pad of flesh at the base of his index finger. His shoulders rise and fall. He feels the maddening tickle of a tear making it out of the corner of his eye. He bites himself harder and longs to punch something.

How had he lived apart from her all those years? How had he managed to compel his heart to beat, his lungs to breathe without the sensation of her heat next to him? How he not languished in painful pining every second of his life while she was not by his side?

He tries to remember what life was like, before that day he kneeled in supplication at her feet. The FBI thought they had captured him, thought he was submitting to their wily authority. Little did they know he bowed down only for one soul, which they delivered to him in a golden goblet as he sat there in chains.

He tries to remember the women and the wine. The intrigue and travel. Even as he sits alone he could have anything he wanted. He could have beautiful women brought to him with a snap of his fingers, as many as he wanted, all at once even. He could have the most expensive bottle of scotch to sip languidly as an entire harem stroked his every whim upon silk sheets. They would be willing and voluptuous. They would live to please him. They would not be bitter and skeptical. They would not reject or misjudge him.

He shakes the idea away. He'll have none of it. None of it could ease the pain of losing her, of knowing she too suffers alone.

How many times a day does he calm himself by whispering her name. How many times does he allow his tongue to stroke the syllables of her because it is all he has left?

He reaches for a piece of paper and a pen. He is not a man who writes a woman's name over and over on a piece of paper and then tears it up and casts it like a hundred wishes into the breeze. He is not this man.

Except he is.


	11. Once

"He kissed me once. Did you know that?" Liz asks over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Who?"

"Reddington."

"Really? No. I didn't know that," Samar returns. She is genuinely surprised, not only by Liz's revelation, but also by the acute knife of jealousy that stabs her suddenly. "When?" She asks the question with the neutral tone she has carefully perfected over the years.

"It was a while back, when we were on the run." Liz sighs and sits back in her seat. Samar had left the Post Office for lunch with Liz. They were sitting in a window of a cafe, munching salads. Samar had not made much headway getting Liz out of that dreadful motel, but she was working on her nutrition. Every bite of the salad with grilled chicken that Liz takes feels like a minor victory to Samar, who tucks her legs under her chair as she listens to Liz confide in her. "We had gotten very close. I mean, we'd been close is a really weird, fucked up way prior to that, but something shifted between us when we were on the run. I guess I knew I'd always been his world, but then all of a sudden, he was mine. He was the only person I had to talk to, the only person I could trust. And the funniest part was, I didn't really mind it."

"Makes sense," Samar says. Part of her hopes this is where the story ends. Part of her hopes for more details. She'd always known about Reddington's obsession and infatuation with Keen, but she never knew it had been anything made flesh. Nor had she known Liz had returned the sentiment.

"So, do you remember when we were holed up in that diner? With all the hostages?"

"Of course."

"Yeah, so after that, we ended up in this shipping container that he'd had all tricked out like the compartment of a luxury liner." In spite of herself, Liz's face spontaneously relaxes into a smile. "I had lost it and beaten the crap out of a guy in the diner who was threatening his girlfriend. I almost killed him. I probably would have killed him if Red hadn't stopped me. It was horrible. Everyone was looking at me like they were terrified. So, at the end of the day, we ended up out in the middle of the ocean and there I was, realizing that I was basically the same as him. A violent fugitive. I was asking him how he could live with people always looking at him like they looked at me in that diner, like I was a monster, or something evil. We were drinking some kind of brandy or port out of these snifters and suddenly he opened the door of the container with this secret code, like he was James Bond or something. We walked out onto the deck and the sky was just on fire with stars. I'd never seen anything like it. He took my hand and told me about how the brightest star always led the sailors home. Then he told me I was his home. And. . . " She throws up a hand, which falls back into her lap, slapping her thigh as it comes to rest.

"And?"

"And he kissed me." She shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee.

"That sounds very romantic," Samar concedes with a raised eyebrow.

"I suppose in some ways, it might have been. At the time I thought I was still in love Tom."

"Thought?"

"I mean, I was still in love with Tom. I don't know. I'd seen him right before I shot the Attorney General. And we had, you know. . ..gotten intimate again. It was confusing. Then of course I found out I was pregnant, and talked myself into giving it another go with him after my exoneration."

"It seemed like you did more than talk yourself into it."

"Yes. Well, I did love him. I did. And he was the father of my child."

"So, it was Tom's baby," Samar bites her lip and regrets the question the moment it comes out of her mouth. "Liz, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. . ."

"No," Liz says, waving hand dismissively between them. "It's understandable. I know when Red and I came back and when it became known I was pregnant there was chatter. People thought I didn't know they were talking about it, wondering. But yeah, it was definitely Tom's baby. He was the only one I'd been with."

"So, you and Reddington, you never?"

"No. Reddington and I never did," she sighs and Samar can't quite tell if it is because they have been talking about Tom and the baby so openly, or because they have been discussing Reddington. Liz looks down into her cup of coffee and seems to get lost in it. "You know, he said Tom was going to sell me to the highest bidder?"

"What?"

"Reddington. He said Tom hadn't really changed, that he was conning me again because there was this enormous price on my head and he was going to auction me off to whomever paid him the most for me."

"Wait. Have you heard from him? From Reddington?"

"God, no. He told me this right before," she pauses and takes a breath. "Right before I lost the baby." She exhales. The words clearly still tax her.

Samar looks at her own hands, "Do you believe it?" She asks the question in the most level voice she can manage.

"I didn't. I was so angry at him. For manipulating me and murdering Tom. But now, I don't know," she hunches closer to Samar and lowers her voice. "For the past week or so, it feels like someone might be following me, like maybe I'm not entirely safe." She sits back up and rolls her eyes, exhales a hearty breath and says, "Maybe I'm just losing my mind."

Samar reaches across the table and takes Liz's hands in her own. "You are not going crazy. You've been through a terrible ordeal. You're probably the only person I know who could go through what you did and come out of it stronger and more grounded. I admire that about you, Liz."

"And you have been so good to me, Samar. I don't know what I would have done, how I would have managed these last weeks without you. Losing Tom was bad, but I could have born it. The baby, though. Losing her is unbearable. I don't think I'll ever get over it."

"Her?"

"Yes," Liz says as the tears start to slide down her cheeks. "She was a little girl."

"Did you name her?"

"Yeah. I called her Agnes, after Sam's mother." Liz swipes at the tears and seeing her in this pain makes Samar's eyes prickle. It's been a long time since she has cried, and she swallows the lump forming in her throat so she can stay strong for Liz.

"It's a beautiful name," Samar says.

"Thanks," Liz breathes. "I thought so too."

"It's okay to talk about it, to talk about her. If you need to talk about it, that is. Sometimes talking can help. I'm here for you, Liz."

Their hands are still clasped across the table. Liz returns the squeeze Samar gives her. Samar looks at her watch. "I have to be getting back," she says.

"Are you guys busy? What are you working on?"

"You know I can't tell you about that," Samar laughs.

"Oh, come on Samar! Give me just a little taste! I need to at least hear about work, if I can't actually be at work," Liz says, but she is laughing good naturedly.

"Well, keep working on eating and sleeping and getting back in shape and you will be back in no time," Samar says. "Anyway, what does the rest of the day hold for you?"

"Uhh, I don't know. I might go to the bookstore. I also have to get my mail from the post office box, but I don't know if I am ready to deal with that. So, I think I'll take a walk in the park and maybe grab a book. Simple escapes, right?"

"That actually sounds very nice. But I don't like it that you feel like you are being followed," Samar says. "I'd like to talk to Cooper about giving you a protective detail for a while."

"No. Samar, I don't want that."

"But, Liz," Samar begins.

"No. Please. I appreciate your concern. Really. I do. But I want to feel normal again. I need to feel normal again. I don't want people following me around like I'm some sort of fragile child. I can take care of myself." Liz raises her eyebrows and smiles. "Warrior gene, remember?"

"Alright." Samar says, but as they get up and walk out of the cafe, she knows she is going to have to report this to Reddington. She's been hesitant to contact him at all, mostly out of loyalty to Liz. But this is an exception. This is about safety. She will have to let him know that the protection around Liz will have to be stepped up through unofficial channels, and hopefully, Liz will stay safe and be none the wiser.


	12. Drowning

Lizzie,

I write to you from my bed this morning. The windows are open and the wind off the ocean is blowing the curtains into the room in which I stay. It is beautiful. The breeze brushes my skin as I lie here, and my thoughts turn to you.

How I wish you were here, lying in my arms, your head nestled into my chest, listening to this heart that beats only for you, my only love, my sweet Elizabeth. . . my thoughts of you are both torture and the only salve I know.

I yearn for simple things- to pop a grape into your mouth, or to pour cool wine for you into a glass beaded with the sweat of condensation from the hot weather. Would that I could lift your dark tresses off of your neck and kiss the flesh beneath, or bring you a book to read as you lounge in the sand. Even the most pedestrian of gestures would fill my life with grace.

I've taken a liberty, about which I hope one day you will be glad, or at least not upset with me. Enclosed you will find a necklace. I know you had your baby cremated, but that you were unable or unwilling to collect her ashes. When I was in Italy, I had a jeweler friend of mine craft this necklace for you, and inside are some of your daughter's remains. If I've measured correctly, the pendant should sit just above your heart, and you can keep her there with you always.

Tiny Agnes will always be a part of you, spiritually, emotionally, and physically. Scientists have found that cells of the babies women carry remain within them for decades after the pregnancy is over. Perhaps it will bring you some comfort to you to know this, and to have a tangible part of her upon your chest.

The gold of it is melted from some 24 karat bangles I bought for you a while back in India. I was going to give them to you as a gift for something or another, but I never got the chance. I've carried them around with me, most of the time keeping them in the breast pocket of my coat. I decided they would be put to better use to adorning your neck in this way.

The loves that stain us are always accidental, unintentional, and irrevocable, like a glass of red wine spilled upon a white shirt which can never again be bleached completely clean. If there is one truth I know, it is this.

I did not intend to adore you with such thorough compulsion. And yet I find myself nearly lost without you. I am forever changed.

I've floundered down the stretch of beach and tossed my body into the sea, part of me hoping I would be carried off on the currents forevermore. But our work is not done.

I will save you. I will prove to you that my affections are honest and pure. I will whisper every secret and every answer into the darling, chambered nautilus of your ear, and only then can you be the judge and jury. You can decide for yourself if you want to pull this drowning man from the water, or leave him to sink and become one with the flotsam and jetsam of memory. I will be at peace with the verdict you reach, with either your condemnation or pardon, so long as you know and believe the whole truth.

There was a time I thought I would be able to rest and breathe again if only I could taste your lips. For over a year, I labored under the delusion that if I could feel your skin beneath my own mouth, I would be sated and free of my wretched yearning. After I did kiss you, however, I knew I would spend the rest of my days in agony, franticly sick with longing for more and more like a pathetic addict.

For a short time, I was able to find peace in my proximity to you. I allowed myself to be placated with the luminous visage of your face, even when it was angry and frustrated with me. But like the addict, my tolerance grew and I needed more and more to satisfy my cravings. There was one night I stayed for hours in my car outside of your apartment. Dembe begged me to either go up and talk to you, or to turn around and go home.

But that's the rub.

I am homeless without you.

I am but a wandering soul, forced to seek sandy shores that can only offer momentary safety and never any solace.

Do you remember when we worked on catching Frederick Barnes? I tried to tell you that I understood why a man would be willing to burn the world down to save the one person who meant anything to him. You were puzzled and furious with me. You didn't understand how similar we were, or maybe you did and you didn't want to see it. Either way, I asked you then and there, outside of his house, to tell me to go. I told you I would disappear. And you said nothing.

That was the moment, Lizzie. That was the point of no return. I'd already known I was in way too deep, but at that point, I might have been able to walk away, return to my old ways of wandering, women, and wine. But you said nothing. In one brief and simple exchange you'd drawn the line in the sand and then blown it away, erasing forever any chance that our souls could be anything other than intertwined.

Of course you knew nothing of this. You probably still deny it.

I've been travelling, collecting the things that will be necessary for bringing you to safety. It keeps me busy, but does nothing to still the relentless tide of thoughts and dreams of you. Even if I can never kiss your lips again, my love, I will set your life back on its axis. Please let Samar know if you change your mind and need anything from me, and I will be there.

You are my heart and as such, my life.

-R.R.


	13. Broken

She's never been much of a sleeper, but lying alone in bed, Samar realizes it has been over a week since she has slept more than three consecutive hours.

It's doing things to her.

Spending all this time with Liz.

It's bringing up stuff she's not felt in ages. Stuff she's not entirely comfortable feeling. Stuff she would rather hide in the back of her mind so she can work and focus.

It's hard to focus on the task at hand when all she can think about are the little tulip petals of lipstick Liz leaves on her coffee mug. It's hard to concentrate on work when she realizes Liz is wearing lipstick again after weeks of barely washing her hair or putting on pants. And it is almost agonizing when Samar finds herself wondering if it could be possible in any way that Liz put lipstick on for her.

It's hard to focus on extracting political secrets from a covert drug ring as she chides herself for wondering about this, and as she realizes there is no way on this planet that Liz could harbor any other feelings for her besides friendship.

But Liz has changed these past couple weeks. She is smiling more. The color has come back into her cheeks and eclipsed the hardness that grief and anger had cast upon her face. Her lovely face. It is a relief to see her relaxing a bit.

The other night they had met up with the guys from work, and it was fun to see the old Liz reemerge as she teased Aram and Cooper for details of the case they were working and laughed when they would give her nothing. Samar couldn't help her own laughter at Liz's antics, and thrilled to feel their thighs pressed close together under the table.

She tried to leave it there. To allow it to be enough.

There is no denying she and Liz have gotten close. There had been a bond between them since they were trapped together in the airport, both of them infected and petrified of their own impending death. That hadn't been the first time she'd seen Liz behave with unselfish bravery that bordered on foolishness, but it left quite the impression on Samar.

 _Lipstick petals on a glass._

The bond deepened when Liz called Samar when she was on the run to help her find Red when he'd been kidnapped by the Kings of the Highway, and then again when she had stepped up to plan Liz's baby shower.

But this new closeness. . . it has a different flavor. Or maybe it is just Samar sensing the difference.

Samar counts the years since Saida, as she lies there in her bed. Five. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen. _Is it even possible,_ she wonders.

Just as Samar was finally starting to get on with her life after Saida, along came Claudia. She'd called her Cloud. She'd thought maybe she could love her, or at least live with her, but then she was moved to the task force. Cloud could not deal with all the time Samar spent working and freaked out when Samar was missing and then nearly killed at the hands of Luther Braxton. Of course Samar couldn't tell her any of what happened, and Cloud packed her things in an angry panic, as Samar limped around the apartment. What had she expected anyway? It wasn't like Samar could quit her job. But poor Cloud. She couldn't bear all of the secrets that Samar was forced to keep.

In the end, it was worse for Cloud than for Samar.

In the end, it was almost a relief for Samar to have her gone.

For a moment when Shur resurfaced in her life, there had been a glimmer of hope and interest. He'd been there in between Saida and Cloud. He'd known about Saida and didn't care one bit, which was quite unusual for a man in their culture. He also didn't seem to care that Samar was still very much in love with Saida, and this created a safety for Samar that ended up drawing them very close. But in the end, it fell apart.

As it always did.

Samar rolls over in her bed, onto her back. She takes a deep breath and places her hands on her abdomen, trying to breathe deep and slow.

She thinks of Liz answering the door of that awful motel room in her panties that night.

She remembers holding Saida in bed on their last night together.

 _You could come with me,_ Samar had said. _I love you. I'll care for you._

 _Sammi, you know I could never leave. I could never leave my family. It would break them._

She had kissed the burnt honey of Saida's skin until the sun rose, and they parted.

It had broken a part of her, walking away from Saida, like a sledgehammer lowered squarely onto a pocket watch. Part of her wants to confide in Liz about this slice of her history, to let her know she understands what it is to be broken too.

Sleep evades her.

She rolls from back to side and kicks at the covers. She grabs a pillow and wedges it between her legs. She squeezes. She writhes. Moments pass. Her hips undulate against the cushion.

It's not enough.

She tries to think of Saida, of Shur. She finds her brain flashing on Raymond fucking Reddington, and she exhales angrily as she tries to force him out of her mind. It doesn't help.

It's not enough.

She shoves a hand up her nightshirt and pinches at her nipple. She pinches hard enough to elicit a small cry from her own lips. She grinds her face into the pillow at her head and bites down on it. Her hands clench and unclench as she imagines the dove white of Liz's legs. What she would give to wrap herself around them and. . .

It is still not enough.

She brings the fingers of her other hand to her lips and licks the index and middle until they are wet, then she slides them between her legs. She sucks her lower lip as she spins herself against fingers and pillow. She wants it fast. She wants it to be over so she can relax and sleep. Her fingers slip in and out of her as her breath catches and releases and quickens. She thrusts into her fingers and her palm rubs against her mound. She increases the pressure on herself until she feels everything mounting, and then she gasps as she releases against her fingers and her palm and the pillow.

She rolls onto her back again. She closes her eyes as her breath slows and she tries to find sleep.

But it's not enough.


	14. Surfacing

Liz has never been a strong swimmer. She can swim, but she lacks any technique or endurance.

This is what she thinks as icy water fills her lungs.

She tries to swallow or expel it from her chest, but it is crushing her, squeezing her from the inside out. Her hands paddle madly to bring her back to the surface, but all her limbs are captured in the current and can do naught but quiver, helpless and uncooperative.

She throws her head back to look up to the surface, and everything outside of the water is blurry, but terribly bright. It blinds her. She's squinting her eyes against the painfully bright light, but then a dark column passes in front of it, splitting it and softening the glare for her.

She closes her eyes thinking she may as well accept her fate gracefully.

But her eyes snap open like she is a doll who has been sat upright.

This is not her fate.

It was her mother who drowned, or so she was led to believe. It was her mother who walked into the sea and was never seen again, or so Liz was told.

Maybe her mother didn't have this gene, this Warrior Gene.

But she does. Elizabeth Keen does.

It can only mean one thing.

She shakes her head against her pillow until she wakes. She gasps to fill her lungs, as though she has truly been trapped beneath the water. She tries to breathe and can barely get enough oxygen. Her head spins. She tries to tell herself it was a dream, but a flood of adrenaline has already been triggered and courses through her blood, accelerating everything.

She does not feel like a warrior. She is sobbing and alone in her bed in the shitty motel she is staying at as her penance. She sits up, choking on her tears as she choked on those icy dream waters moments ago. She pulls her knees to her chest and hugs them, rocks herself, and tries to calm.

 _Penance for what?_ She asks herself angrily. She didn't do anything. She didn't murder Tom and create the sickening death of her unborn baby. _So why the fuck am I punishing myself?_

She flicks on the light on the night stand and reaches for her phone. Her heart races. She clasps her phone to her chest, pressing to try to slow the rate of her heart. Is she dying?

There is no one she can call at this hour. At one time, it would have been completely plausible to pull on a pair of jeans and show up on Red's doorstep, or to call and have Dembe drive him on over to her, but that seems like ages ago, and perhaps it was.

Now there is not a soul who she could wake to help calm her, to kiss her forehead and whisper, "It's going to be alright. . . There's nothing wrong with you. . . There's nothing wrong." How is it even possible she believed those words, let alone that she would ever again want to hear them murmured smokily upon her brow?

She is certain her heart is going to explode. She knows this is how it feels to drown because this is exactly how it felt when Braxton's men covered her head with a soaking hood and poured water on her, over and over again, trying to break her.

She's never had a panic attack before. Warriors do not panic. She did not panic when Braxton water boarded her. Warriors walk about the world with smoldering power and confidence until they need to spring into action. _This can't be happening,_ she says. Sweat beads on her forehead, and she can feel it trickle down into the small of her back. Cold, dripping sweat.

 _This isn't happening_ , she chants. She thinks she can force herself to believe it. Force herself to calm. But the more she says it, _This isn't happening,_ the more it happens and happens.

Warriors do not have panic attacks, but women who lose things do. Women who lose their husbands and babies and careers and their. . .

. . . what the fuck was Reddington anyway? Her protector? Her dementor? She remembers being trapped in that airport hangar, spinning around and looking for a loophole as Solomon crooned, "What is it between you two anyway? Some say it's a May/December thing. Others say it's a Daddy/Daughter thing. I like to think it's a little of both."

He'd never told her. He'd told her bits and pieces, but never the whole thing.

She will get it. She'll extract the truth from him, word by word until she knows it all. He will tell her. He will fucking give it all up to her because she is a warrior. She tortured Tom, in the hull of that ship. She'd denied him food and warmth. She'd made him sleep in his own filth.

It's not something of which she is proud. But she did it to Tom so she can do what she needs to do to Reddington too. When the time comes.

The thoughts swirl and flicker in her brain like a school of fish, swimming fast and in unison and she can't follow just one.

It is dizzying.

She gulps for air, pounds her fists down against the bed, furious and frightened.

 _This is it,_ she thinks. She waits for death to take her, for it to constrict around her heart in one last pulse of terror and sorrow.

The moment passes, and then another. She is still there, although everything continues to move impossibly fast. Her heart pounds in her head. It's gotten so loud.

She hears her name being called somewhere within the rhythm of the pounding. "Liz! Are you in there? Keen! Answer me!"

She puts her head against her knees and whispers, "I'm coming, Agnes. Mommy is coming."

But the pounding has stopped, and when she looks up, Samar is standing there in front of her bed, her dark curls wild around her head. Liz thinks maybe she saw a portrait of this angel when she was in the gallery. She shakes her head a bit to focus her eyes.

It is Samar. The real, living Samar.

Liz is not dead, she is simply huddled in her bed, shivering as the flood of adrenaline slows.

"My god, Liz," Samar says and rushes to sit next to her on the bed. Liz leans into her and weeps. Samar's arms come around her and she rocks her slowly as Liz cries and cries. "I've got you," she says. "Liz, just breathe. You're going to be alright." She sweeps the hair away from Liz's face that is plastered there with sweat and tears. She presses her lips to her forehead and keeps whispering things as Liz's breath and tears slow.

Samar gradually lies Liz back against her pillows, but does not let go and lies there with her. Eventually, they both fall asleep.


	15. Awake

_**A/N: Thanks to everyone who is taking the time to read this and leave me such thoughtful and motivating comments. You all make my day! xoxoxo. . .**_

Before she even opens her eyes, Liz smells incense. It's a complicated and mystical fragrance of amber with notes of blackberry, currant, and patchouli. It's a smell like a forest at the foot of a mountain. It is a smell that is all at once inviting, exciting, and comforting.

It is the nape of Samar's neck.

As consciousness invades Liz's brain, she realizes she is nestled against Samar's back, her arms wrapped around her, and her face in the nape of her neck. Liz inhales deeply, and then freezes in mortification as she feels Samar stir in her arms. Liz releases her grasp on Samar and rolls over onto her back.

Liz lies there, perfectly still, taking in the throb in her head and swelling around her eyes. She mentally calculates how quietly she can get up and get to the bathroom for a cool cloth. Or ice. She could slip out to the ice machine. It would feel great just to shove her entire head into a bucket of ice right now.

Samar rolls over and props herself up on an elbow. "You're awake," she says.

"Hey," Liz says. Her lips smile, but her brow furrows in chagrin.

"Good morning," Samar says. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. Embarrassed, but fine."

"There is nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I beg to differ," Liz says. She tries to play back the previous night, but only gets the sense of dizziness, of swirling underwater.

"Then we can agree to disagree," Samar says. She sits up and stretches, turning her back to Liz, who notices that Samar had taken off her sweater the night before and is wearing a beige cami that is low cut in the back and reveals a lush oval of skin the color of almond butter.

"How did you know?" Liz asks Samar's back, as she watches her stretch; fine bones rippling under her skin. "How did you know to come?"

"Liz, you called me. You don't remember?" Samar turns her head to look at Liz with a worried and surprised expression.

"No." Liz searches her memory for pieces of the previous night, coming up only with shards that flash like silver fish scales in her mind. "I mean, I remember waking up in a panic and reaching for my phone but thinking there was no one I could call."

"Well, you called me," Samar says. She turns and takes Liz's hand. The crisis has made her more bold. "I'm glad you did."

"Samar, I'm sorry I troubled you. I feel awful."

"Well, you shouldn't. My phone rang, and I picked it up, but there was nothing but muffled noises. I was worried. After what you'd told me about feeling like you were being followed, I thought. . . well, it doesn't really matter what I thought. Suffice to say, it was a relief to find you here alone, although I feel terrible about what you seemed to be going through. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly," Liz sighs. She drags her body out of bed and starts to make coffee in the tiny pot on top of the mini fridge. "This thing makes pretty crappy coffee, I'm warning you."

"Changing the subject, Keen?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Um, yeah," Samar says. She rubs at her face. She feels puffy from just waking, but not nearly as puffy as Liz looks from the hours of crying the night before. Samar swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands up. She slept in her jeans, although she did remove her boots, jacket, and sweater. She stands and grabs for her sweater. Liz's back is turned. "I'm worried about you, Liz."

"Don't be."

"Does that happen often?"

"I don't know. Not really. You don't need to be worried about me. I'll be fine." Liz turns to find Samar staring intently at her with eyes still dusky and hooded from sleep. Samar continues to stare at her, pursing her lips and crossing her arms over her chest. "Samar. I think it was just an anxiety attack. I had a bad dream and I woke up in a rough way. I'm totally fine. See?" She spreads her arms open wide and smiles. Samar does not return the smile, but does take a step closer.

"What you've been through," she begins, but Liz cuts her off and holds up a hand.

"Samar, please."

"No, Elizabeth," Samar snaps. "You 'please.' I was frightened. I came here thinking god-knows-what was happening to you last night. Look. You don't owe me any explanation," she sighs. "But will you please go check in with your doctor?"

Liz steps up to Samar and puts her hands on her arms. "I'm sorry I frightened you," she says, looking up into Samar's face. "And, I'm sorry for being flip. It was thoughtless of me. After everything you have done for me these past weeks, I'm so sorry."

"Please don't apologize," Samar says. She collects Liz to her in an embrace. They stand, holding onto one another as the coffee pot gurgles. She feels Liz relax against her, as she did the night before, and the sense of her yielding in Samar's arms makes Samar's legs tremble.

She struggles to keep her breath slow and steady. A chill and a flush course through her simultaneously, and she is thankful she had put her sweater back on as she feels her nipples harden. Her hands wander up and down Liz's back, and one of them comes up to rest on the back of her neck. She inhales the scent of Liz's hair and finds herself pressing her lips on her temple. She is momentarily horrified that she has taken this liberty, but Liz is still in her arms and has not stiffened or pulled away. She allows her fingers to tuck Liz's hair behind her ear and then she whispers, "It is enough that you are alright."

As they part, Liz is startled to find a tear streaming down Samar's cheek. She reaches up and cups her face, using her thumb to wipe away the tear. She pulls Samar's face towards hers and they rest their foreheads against one another. Their shoulders rise and fall with their breath. "I'm so sorry," Liz whispers. "Thank you for coming, Samar. I thought I was dying and then you were here and I. . ." Liz fumbles for words to express how she felt rescued and cared for, how the closeness of Samar's arms has made her feel protected and calm. But she can't find a way to organize all of those words, so she says, "I'll talk to the doctor. I will."

"Thank you," Samar says.

They part and Liz turns to pour coffee into a couple of yard sale mugs. "But Samar?"

"Yes?"

"Could we keep this between you and I?" Liz hands a mug to Samar. "I mean, I don't want the guys at the task force knowing that I totally was off my rocker. I'm desperate to get back to work, and I don't want this to set me back."

"Of course," Samar says. She wouldn't dream of breaking Liz's trust, and will honor her promise to not tell Cooper or the others at the Post Office. But she scowls into her coffee when Liz is not looking, because she knows there is someone to whom she absolutely must disclose this event. The thought of it creates a tightness in her chest. She takes an impulsive gulp of her coffee and it is too hot and it burns her tongue and throat going down.


	16. Clean

He's just stepped into the steaming bath when Dembe brings him the phone. He shoots him a look of annoyance, but raises his eyebrows when Dembe gives him a look that intimates this is a call of importance. Red takes the small square of towel off of his head and wipes his hands dry, then replaces the towel on his head and reaches for the phone.

"Yeah," he growls.

"It's me."

"Agent Navabi," he says and sits up a little straighter against the wall of the tub. "Is everything alright?"

"For the moment," she says, but he can tell there is more behind her meager words.

"You have an update for me?" He asks the question indulgently, as he really wants to hiss that she should just spit it out.

"Liz. She's stable, but she's not well."

Steam rises off the water. The fountain in the middle of the tub flows, the scented water coursing around a huge marble ball. Red's eyes are drawn to it until he is almost hypnotized. He looks around at the tiled floor and takes in the vines climbing up around a small palm tree planted in a corner garden. It was supposed to be tranquil here. He supposes it is tranquil here, rather it is the distinct lack of tranquility within him that creates the sense of being ill at ease. And now, to hear Samar's voice telling him Lizzie suffers.

"I need more details," he quips. He wants to know everything. He wants to know if she smells the same, or if she has changed her perfume or shampoo. Speaking of shampoo, he wants to know how she is styling her hair. He wants to know what she had for breakfast and if she is drinking enough water. She dehydrates easily. He remembers this from their time on the run, how one time she almost fainted in his arms because she had nothing to drink all day, how her pointy, slight elbow felt in the palm of his hand as he caught her and brought her to a chair, how he pressed his cheek to her forehead to see if she had become feverish, how tenderness mixed inside his own chest with lust and longing as he brought her a bottle of water.

"She's trying to keep herself together," Samar interrupts his thoughts. "On the outside, she looks strong, even happy again at times, but it's fragile. She barely sleeps, and when she does, she has these night terrors that make her feel as though she is dying. Her heart races and she can't breathe. But then she gets up in the morning and pretends like everything's okay."

"Yes. That sounds like how she would handle it," he says, more to himself than to Samar. He can picture the way Lizzie's eyebrows knit together and how she scrunches one side of her mouth when she is thinking or upset. He suddenly wants to get off of the phone. He wants to slide under the water of the bath and blow the air out of his lungs in big bubbles until it is gone.

"Also," Samar begins and then pauses.

"Yes?" He says feeling impatient and not caring that his voice betrays this in a most uncharitable way to the woman who is watching over Lizzie for him. His Lizzie. His sweet, brave girl who is suffering without him. He feels eviscerated, as though his heart has wound up completely on the other side of the earth and is not even allowed to beat anywhere near him. It is an inexplicable pain, one he can share with no one.

"She told me that she thinks someone is following her," Samar says.

"Ahhh. Well that is concerning." He wipes the sweat from his brow with the towel, and notices that the bath matron has placed a tumbler of scotch and a tumbler of ice on the edge of the tub. He normally takes his scotch neat, but the steam and heat of the bathhouse makes the ice appealing. He plops a couple cubes into the glass, then wraps his hand squarely around it. He tosses it back and swallows, his throat curling around the liquor in a comforting embrace, as he ponders the situation at hand.

"Hello?"

"Yes. I'm here. I'm just contemplating the next move. You've given her the package?"

"No. Not yet. I don't believe she is ready."

"Well, we will have to make her ready, then. She needs the contents of that item and she needs to prepare herself for the next phase of this."

"If you could give me even a clue as to what it is, I could maybe help prepare her."

"Won't be necessary," he sighs and gestures to the bath matron to refill his drink. A cool breeze blows in through the cedar slats of the windows. "She will know exactly what it is for."

"I'll try, but I'm concerned about her well-being."

"I can have Kaplan send over a parcel with some medications if you think that would help."

"Reddington, I can barely get her to go see her doctor. She's definitely not going to start taking medication of her own accord."

"Well, then maybe it needs to be not of her own accord. Something you can slip into a drink, something that will dissolve into a lovely pinot and just enhance the effects of relaxation?" He knows how her nerves fray when she doesn't sleep, how she chews at her fingers, how she paces, how the dimples in her cheek disappear and her temper flares.

"I am not going to drug Elizabeth!" Samar snaps.

Red slaps a frustrated fist into the bath water. He would do it. If he could get close enough to her, he would slip her a little something just so she could relax and sleep. He would kiss her forehead as she lay calm and at ease. He would hold her hand and. . .

. . . oh fuck. Maybe it is the scotch or hearing Samar saying her name out loud, or his own puerile fantasies and pent up passions, but he glances down between his thighs and finds himself hard for the first time in weeks. For a moment, his erection is so distracting he forgets he is on the phone with Samar and simply gazes at it in half wonder, half irritation.

"Fair enough," he says at last. "I can trust you to keep a close watch on her?"

"Yes. Of course."

"And she's trusting you?"

"Yes. We've grown. . . quite close over the past weeks."

"Good. Well, you know where to reach me with any other changes. I'll send word to Baz to increase the security around her, but if they have found her, it won't be long. Thank you, Samar, for seeing to all of this. I know it must be an additional chore with your work with the task force. I will have a little something extra deposited into your account."

"Being there for Liz isn't a chore and I don't want your money, Reddington. What I do for Liz, I do because I care about her. Deeply."

"Yes. Well. Don't we all," he grumbles. "Regardless, I will send along a little extra to keep you soluble when the times comes to travel. It is never pleasant, but I would like for you and Lizzie to be as comfortable as possible. I'm not sure how you want to handle your absence with Harold, but you can work that out however you see fit. I'll be in touch."

He hands the phone back up to Dembe and frowns in annoyance as he remembers that he forgot to ask Samar if Lizzie got or read any of his letters, if she got the pendant he'd had made for her, if it was even possible she would slip it around her neck.

He looks back down in the water to find he is flaccid once more. He shrugs and leans back, sliding down into the water so he is submerged up to his neck.

The matron comes back around sprinkling salts and herbs into the water. He'd requested the hottest and saltiest bath possible. This particular establishment never failed in their desire to make him comfortable and content. She does not look at him or even acknowledge him as she walks the perimeter of the large tub.

The baths in Japan are legendary for their healing properties. He imagines telling Lizzie about it. _You don't actually get clean in the bath._ _You actually scrub yourself with a loofah and plenty of soap before getting into the bath. That's the irony of it._ He smiles and stretches his legs out, flexes his feet in the water.

He reaches back for his glass and drains it of its amber contents once again. _There are very strict rules about eating and drinking in the bath_ , he imagines telling Lizzie, _but at this particular establishment, they have come to make accommodations for Raymond San. People come to the Sento to bring about emotional intimacy through the physical proximity to others in the bath, or simply because they would like a therapeutic soak. It isn't actually about getting clean_.

 _As though you've ever been clean, Reddington_ , he imagines her hissing at him and he winces.

Of course Red does not bathe with others, at least not on this particular occasion, although the tub is large enough to fit twenty or thirty other bathers. In theory, men and women are segregated in these bathhouses, but this is one other area in which the staff have made accommodations for him. Or at least they did in the past. On this trip, when the matron offered to bring Red some company, he waved her away. So, he sits, alone, the heat of the water turning his skin pink.

He gazes out through the cedar slats and takes in the mountain, her peaks wreathed in wisps of cloud. It is yet another view he wishes he could share with Lizzie. He closes his eyes and allows her nubile form to slide into place next to him, slippery and graceful as a mermaid. She does not hiss angry words at him. She is peaceful company as she rolls her head onto his shoulder. They hold hands beneath the water, their thighs touching.

"We will be clean," he says under his breath.

Thinking he has summoned her, the matron comes back around with the decanter of scotch. She refills his glass, but he does not reach for it. He does not want to let go of Lizzie's hands under the water.


	17. Moving

Liz agrees to stay at Samar's apartment under extreme duress. And laughter.

Samar had listed all of the disgusting features of the motel room one by one to Liz as they sat there one night. The terrible water pressure in the shower. The smell of mothballs and stale Chinese food. The noises of neighboring occupants getting down and dirty in the night for hours on end. Used condoms in the parking lot. The greasy manager who insisted on giving Liz lascivious looks. The list went on and on.

Samar did not include that it was a full 15 minutes from her place and if anything truly dire should happen to Liz it might just be too far. The night terror incident had scared Samar. And even though she knew that Red's army was likely an arm's reach away in any direction, she still wanted some control and security over the situation.

"No, Liz, it is _not_ charming," Samar had chuckled when Liz tried to defend her choice of housing.

"But I get all the cable channels," Liz tried to argue.

"That isn't worth all of the other horrid features of this place. Seriously, Liz." Samar reached over and put a hand around her slim upper arm. "You are punishing yourself by staying here. Don't think I can't see what you are trying to do. But you have nothing to be punished for. You did no wrong."

"Then why do I feel like this?"

"Because life is all kinds of weird and dark and you have had your share of trauma. Please. Stop this. It is not good for you and it is not going to help you heal. Come stay with me. Even for a couple weeks."

"Well, I guess that could be fun. Kind of like an extended sleepover."

"Yes, only you can't keep me up gabbing and braiding my hair all night because I still have to go to work the next day," Samar had started to laugh but saw the look on Liz's face. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. That was totally insensitive of me. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay," Liz had replied with her typical good nature.

"What does the doctor say?"

"Ugh. He says I probably need a couple more weeks. He says my blood levels are still a bit low and wants to get my iron up more before he is willing to sign off and get me back in the field." Liz had frowned as she delivered this news to Samar.

"Liz," Samar started, tentatively, hedging all her bets, "It might help you get back to work faster if you weren't staying in substandard housing, if you could relax and have a decent shower at least."

And that was the little push Liz needed to pack her things.

As they drag the suitcases up the stairs to Sarmar's place in Old Town Alexandria, Samar can't help thinking how relieved she is. Keeping Liz closer will help her keep her safe. It will also hopefully present the opportunity for Samar to give her the item from Reddington.

"I never figured you for an interior designer," Liz says as Samar opens the door and ushers her in.

"Well, I'm hardly that," she says, attempting to demure and not smile too proudly.

"Come on! This place looks like a Pier One catalogue or a Pottery Barn showroom."

"That's just because you have been living in abject squalor for the past month," Samar laughs lightly. "Through here is the guest room." She leads Liz back into the spare bedroom. She doesn't bother to mention that she used some of the funds from Reddington to buy not only a new set of bedding with lilac cherry blossoms on it, but also a bed, chest of drawers, and night stand to furnish the room that had previously been vacant but for a wilting spider plant and kilim rug that had belonged to her family.

"This is lovely," Liz says slowly taking it all in.

"The bathroom is down the hall. You can help yourself to anything in the fridge and let me know if there are certain things you enjoy. I can pick them up."

"Samar," Liz starts. "This is so kind of you, really. But I really don't want you to make a fuss over me. Besides, I rarely use or make anything in the kitchen. I am however a wizard with take out menus. Where do you keep those?"

"Hmm. To be honest, I don't order a lot of take out so I don't think I really have any."

"Then how do you eat?"

"Well, Keen, it's this radical process called 'cooking'." A wry smile comes across Samar's face and her eyes crinkle with it.

"You cook?"

"Sure. I love to cook," Samar says.

"Wow. All these things I'm learning about you," Liz sighs.

Samar can't help but think back on the first case they had worked together, how suspicious and guarded Liz had been with her. She had offered to buy her a drink after they wrapped up the case and Liz had turned her down flat. She had somehow managed to dazzle the rest of the team with her skill set, but not Liz. And now, here she is, contemplating Samar's living space, talking about Samar's cooking skills and knack for interior design.

"It can take a long time to know a person," Samar offers. "Why don't you get settled, and I'll make us some dinner. The dresser is empty, as is the closet." She leaves the guest room and goes out to the kitchen. From the fridge she takes ingredients for a simple chicken dish. While she imagines dazzling Liz with her culinary prowess, she opts to keep things easy and uncomplicated for their first night. She puts a pot of water on to make risotto. She dredges the chicken in some egg and flour and browns it lightly in a skillet, then makes a quick white wine and lemon sauce. She starts washing and chopping mushrooms and asparagus while the chicken simmers.

She gets so engrossed in her cooking that she doesn't notice when Liz emerges from the bedroom and prowls around the living room looking at photos and knick knacks.

Samar is startled when she hears, "Who's this?" Liz holds a framed photo. "Is this you?"

"Yes, that is in fact me. About 15 years ago."

"Ah, you look so young here! And who is this with you?"

Samar glances at the photo before she answers, "My friend, Saida."

"She's beautiful."

"Yes," Samar says with a smile that she has to force. _She was_ , she adds silently. Liz is alternately looking at the Samar in front of her and the Samar from ancient history in the photo. Samar stirs the chicken. She dumps the vegetables into another pan with some olive oil. It is silent but for the hissing of the hot oil as it meets cool, damp vegetables, and the bubbling of the chicken as it simmers. Samar stares down into the food she is preparing. She can hear a soft tap as Liz replaces the photo on a shelf. Liz walks back over to the kitchen and takes a seat on a stool at the island. "Would you like to open a bottle of wine?"

"That," Liz grins, "Is something I do know how to do in the kitchen." She hops back off of the stool and looks around the kitchen.

"There is a bottle in the fridge and a corkscrew in the drawer next to the fridge," Samar says. It is strange but nice having Liz's company as she cooks. She is most often a creature of solitude. Liz opens the bottle and then pours the wine into glasses Samar puts out for them.

"Smells amazing," Liz says and takes a sip of wine.

"Thanks. It's just easy, but I think it will taste alright."

"I honestly can not remember the last time I had a home cooked meal," Liz begins. "Things were so crazy before the Attorney General, and then being on the run we were eating in all these diners and dives. When I came back, I think Tom might have cooked for me a couple times. He loved to cook, too."

"You're telling me it has been over a month since you've had any meals at home?"

"Well, yeah. Unless cereal counts."

"Cereal does not count," Samar laughs. She holds up her wine glass and says, "Well, then. Here's to home cooked food." They clink their glasses together and drink.


	18. History

**_A/N: All aboard the fluffy train. This chapter is just about the fluffiest thing I've ever written. Consider yourself warned. And this chapter was also written for a sweetheart who has been waiting ever so patiently for it, for her birthday, the Beautiful Badass. xoxo. I love your comments, so please let me know how you are liking this or what you are thinking about it..._**

After dinner, they sit on the couch with mugs of mint tea, their bodies angled companionably toward one another. Liz tucks her feet up and Samar is pleased to see her so comfortable.

"So, I noticed something," Liz starts.

"Oh, yeah? What?"

"Well, you have all these little embellishments all over the place here, and you seem to enjoy decorating with mirrors, and with paintings or photos of landscapes. But the only photograph of an actual person you have in here is the one of you and your friend. What did you say her name was?"

"Saida," Samar says. Saying the name still brings a tightness to her chest, a sense of pain and comfort mixed together. She does not often have the opportunity for saying her name and now she has said it twice in one evening.

"Well?"

"Well, what, Keen?"

"How come you don't have any photos of any other family or friends?" She smiles coyly. "You know Aram had a picture of you in his apartment?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It was on his fridge. Red and I went there when we were on the run. Aram helped us."

"Yes. He told me," Samar says. She remembers their tacit agreement to do anything to help Liz.

"So, how come no pictures of people?"

"God. You'd think you work for the FBI or something," Samar says, and her tone is light, but her smile is sad.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"No. It's ok. It's a good question," Samar begins slowly. "I had to flee from Iran under rather dire circumstances. I suppose I didn't have a lot of time for collecting personal effects. I do have a couple pictures of my parents, but I keep those in my room, in an album in my safe. I destroyed the pictures of my brother, after. . ."

"Oh, Samar. I'm sorry. That must have been horrible for you. I can't imagine."

"If there is one person who can imagine horrible things happening in a person's life, I am fairly certain it is you, Elizabeth."

"I do have bit of a track record," Liz sighs.

"It's one of the things that draws me to you," Samar says.

"What?" Liz asks, her voice incredulous. "My damage?"

"Yes."

"I find it difficult to believe anyone could be drawn to me like this; how broken I am now."

"We are all broken in our own ways," Samar begins. "Some might say when we mend these places, it makes us stronger, more complex, more interesting, like an ornately glazed piece of pottery that has passed through history and been chipped in places. You look at it and wonder, how did those chips happen? And why?" She pauses for a moment. Liz looks at her, intently listening. " It's the little chips in the glaze of people that fascinate me."

The wine has relaxed her and she moves, almost imperceptibly, closer to Liz on the couch. Her eyes feel heavy and her blood feels hot. "I like to think where we are broken, we are beautiful. No two scars or cracks are identical." She reaches out her hand, as if in slow motion, as if underwater and brushes her fingers against the little hollow at Liz's throat. She allows her hand to float down over Liz's heart and she presses slightly.

Liz puts her mug down and takes Samar's hand, but rather than moving it away, she presses it closer to her chest, as though she is desperate for someone besides herself to feel her heart beating, to validate that she is in fact alive and fighting for every breath. Samar feels the pressure of Liz's hand, and feels that it is warmed from holding the mug of hot tea.

They breathe at the same rapid pace, their shoulders rising and falling in unison, as though they just swam a long way, and are floating, treading water, catching their breath.

"She was special to you?" Liz asks with a trepidation that feels a lot like walking through a field peppered with mines. "Your friend? Saida?"

"Yes," Samar says.

"Are you broken too?" Liz whispers.

"I am," Samar replies.

"Oh, Samar," Liz exhales and before either of them know what is happening next, Liz's hand slides around Samar's neck and pulls her face down to her own. Their foreheads press together as they did the morning after Liz's bad night, but there is a different energy flowing between them, a syrupy heaviness, as they stay perfectly still, listening to each other breathe. When their lips meet they are both so surprised, they inhale sharply at the same time, but do not part. At first their lips are tender and soft, but the kiss deepens and their mouths become bolder as they nibble and lick one another.

Samar's hand drops from Liz's heart and her arms encircle her waist. Liz loops both hands around Samar's neck and pulls her closer, with a decisiveness that is almost rough. They taste of mint and garlic, and underneath everything the tang of white wine. The delicacy of their lips together is rare and exciting. Unable to help herself, Samar caresses Liz's waist, her fingers grazing her breast, as she nips at Liz's neck.

"Oh, God," Liz says suddenly and jumps up off of the couch. She stands before Samar, her hand over her mouth. She's gasping for breath, about to cry. She starts to pace, and visibly flounders for words. "I don't know what I. . . It was. . . I . . . I'm sorry, Samar, I. . ."

Samar sits perfectly still, her own hands on her knees, looking up at Liz as she shakes and paces before her.

"Elizabeth," she says and grabs her wrist as she passes. Liz stops, one wrist caught in Samar's grasp, and her other hand raised, still touching her lips. Her tongue flicks out and touches the pad of her ring finger. She wants more. Samar can see Liz wants more but is scared of it at the same time. She pulls Liz back to the couch until Liz stands squarely before her.

Liz lowers her hand from her mouth, and Samar catches it instantly. Samar stares into the cloudy blue of Liz's eyes as she kisses her hand. They are both shaking, quivering like explorers who have just discovered something that had never before been charted on any map.

"Samar," Liz begins, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I'm no good right now. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I should go pack. I can't." She babbles all of this, tears streaming down her cheeks, and starts to pull her hands away from Samar.

"Fuck that," Samar says in a low voice that is very calm, but very fierce. She lets go of Liz's hands and brings her own hands to Liz's hips. "Fuck all of that." She pulls Liz's toward her until her knees have no choice but to bend against the couch so she straddles Samar's lap. She grabs her waist and pulls her down on top of her. "Fuck it all," Samar whispers and they resume the kiss like it is the only thing they have ever done, like it is the only kiss either of them will ever have for the rest of their days, like it is the only way they can continue moving past the trauma and destruction of their individual histories as they merge and create something different and new.

They kiss for what could be moments, or hours, or their entire lives. Liz's hands caress Samar's jaw and neck, and Samar kneads the small of Liz's back. Liz remains perched atop Samar, her face slightly higher, and she peers down into Samar's face with an almost amused curiosity.

"Should I move?" She asks Samar, even as her fingers tangle themselves into her thick, dark hair which she sweeps aside to lower her lips to the curve of Samar's neck. "Am I crushing you?"

Samar takes Liz's face in her hands so they are once more eye to eye. "I don't ever want you to move," she says. Liz nuzzles her head into Samar's shoulder and relaxes her body. She utters a little moan that is almost like a whimper and Samar cannot tell if it is sad or regretful. "Are you ok?"

"I am," Liz whispers. "It's just been so long since I've been held or kissed. It feels so nice. Just to be held like this."

"I was hoping I was a little more than a warm body to you, Keen," Samar teases, but Liz senses the question in her words. Liz sits up and strokes Samar's face.

"You are," she says. "So much more."

When they kiss again Liz and Samar explore deeper. Their tongues sweep over their teeth and rub against each other, every little bud electrified and excited by the sensation. Liz twists Samar's hair in a fist and grinds a little closer to her, losing her inhibitions and allowing her other hand to move down to brush over Samar's breast. When she does this, Samar's breath catches and Liz feels a moment of fear which turns to panic as she realizes what she is doing to the other woman. Liz starts to pull away again.

"No," Samar murmurs. "Please don't pull away from me." She anchors Liz's hips to her with her hands.

"I'm scared," Liz says.

"You're not scared."

"I think I am."

"What do you have to be scared of?" Samar asks. The question in and of itself is ridiculous, and the irony of it is not wasted on Samar as she imagines the bevy of peril that lurks beyond their door. "You don't need to be scared. Remember? You're safe with me."

Liz sits up on her knees so she kneels over Samar. She pushes Samar's shoulders back into the cushion of the couch, then brushes all the hair away from her face. Samar's head is back and Liz leans down, so her hair makes a tent of sorts around their faces. Liz allows her lips to hover, just above Samar's. Their eyes are open, searching one another's faces as their breath meets the same pace.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" Liz asks.

"Yes."

"And just hold me? All night?"

"Yes."

Liz allows her lips to descend onto Samar's and they rest there, not really moving or even kissing, just lightly touching.

There is no fear.

Their eyes are open and they breathe the same breath.


	19. Questions

_**A/N: Thank you so much for reading. . . I live for comments, so feel free to let me know what you think. xoxo.**_

19\. Questions

They part from one another long enough to change into sleeping clothes and brush their teeth. With very little conversation, they decide to climb, together, into Liz's bed. The new, fresh linens and fluffed up duvet completely lack shadows. There is nothing dark or hidden in a single thread of it.

Liz curls onto her side, and Samar slips up close behind her, wraps her arms around her slender waist.

"Can I ask you a question?" Liz's whisper breaks the silence.

"Of course," Samar replies.

"Well, I get the impression you have done that before."

"What? Done what, exactly?" Samar teases.

"You know," Liz says uncomfortably.

"Oh, do you mean kiss a beautiful woman?"

"Yeah."

"Ah, I see. Yes. I have done that before." Samar's lips nibble Liz's neck and her fingers splay over Liz's stomach. She pulls her into her just a bit closer. To breathe her flesh is enough. It is more than enough. She should not dare to ask for more, and yet her hips wiggle closer and the want is there.

"So, are you. . ." Liz begins.

"Gay?"

"Well, yeah."

"I suppose you could call me that," Samar says.

"But, what about Ressler? And Shur? I thought you liked guys."

"I do enjoy men once in awhile," Samar says. She kisses Liz's shoulder. "But I love women."

Liz clears her throat. "So, Saida?"

"She was my lover, yes." Samar exhales. "She was my first love, when I was quite young. It was very taboo in our culture. Neither of our families knew. We would have been shunned for bringing great shame on our families if anyone had ever found out. So it was a secret."

"You loved her," Liz says, her voice sounding almost satisfied, like she had slipped the last piece of a puzzle neatly into its place.

"I did."

"Why did it end?"

"Well, I was moving for my training and then again for my job. I tried to get her to come with me, but she wouldn't. Or couldn't. And so it ended. I heard she was married to a man from our village."

"You never talk to her anymore?"

"No. I don't."

"Why?"

"She took her life," Samar says wearily. Talking about Saida always extracts a heavy toll on her, which is why she rarely does it. "A short time after her marriage, she took her life."

Liz rolls onto her back and then onto her other side so she can face Samar.

"I'm so sorry," she says. Liz brings a hand up to stroke Samar's cheek and in the darkness, she can feel a trail of tears make its way down her skin. She wipes it away and then the two women clasp hands in the darkness.

"It's alright," Samar says, although it seems she says it more to herself than to Liz.

"So, you have been broken too," Liz sighs into the night.

"Yes. I have been broken too," Samar replies and there is a sense of relief in saying it.


	20. Hopeless, Part One

_**A/n: In which the angst begins as we find Red lost and alone and confused. . . this chapter is a bit NSFW. Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to comment. Xoxo.**_

He lies across the bed.

A puddle of semen congeals in his navel, as do droplets on his chest and nipples.

He feels a sullen shame.

He'd felt it as soon as he had his release. Even in its pulses there was no pleasure, only grief and regret.

He was supposed to save himself. He had been saving himself. But it was such a hard and hopeless pursuit for a man of his desire.

 _Maybe she will forgive_ , he thinks.

But he knows, deep in his heart, he knows she will never forgive. And it is not just that he has jerked himself roughly off in the silk sheets of this lavish bed until he screamed her name. His sins are endless. He imagines kneeling in a velvet-lined confessional. His confession would never end. Faces of his dead rise and fade before him in an endless parade. _The ambulance driver. Newton Phillips. Diane Fowler._ They would go on, one by one, until his last breath came rasping out of his dry throat and the priest had turned into a skeleton. _The gun collector. The Stewmaker. Wujing's associate. Tom Keen._ Names and aliases go on and on.

The box, meant for absolution, would be his tomb.

 _I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it,_ he thinks, trying like an addict to rationalize his blood lust and greed. _I never killed anyone who didn't pose a threat to you, Elizabeth._

He lies diagonally across the disheveled bed. Twilight turns the room thick with a dusty, purple glow. How he'd always hated the expression _in the gloaming._ But here he is.

 _This light,_ he thinks, _makes everything slow. And heavy. So awfully slow and heavy._

It is as though someone is shoveling sand over him. With every breath he takes, another shovel-full is heaved upon him, each grain as heavy and unbearable as life itself has become.

He could move. He could get up and shower and wash away the sand.

He choses not to.

He chooses instead to find a bizarre comfort in the weight as it is heaped upon his chest.

Because the weight is, and has always been, her.

She allows him to take her hand as they sit on a park bench. She comes to him for comfort on a rainy night. She embraces him in the car after a brush with death. She kisses him in the gallery. She holds his hand beneath the stars on the ship. She shoves her hands into his chest to stop his blood flow when he is shot. She is a ray of sunlight, his hope, his desire. She collapses in his arms. She covers him in her blood. She begs him to let her die.

The progression is most always the same and ends each time with him carrying her to the car, bathing in her blood, her baby's blood, as they die in his arms.

His light in the deep, dark cave; she saved him. She saved his life, but she begs him to die.

 _Am I responsible for Agnes?_ He wonders. His eyes pop open at the thought. Will I recite her tiny name when I kneel and beg for my soul to be restored?

He closes his eyes again. He lies still and naked on the bed. Evening has turned the white curtains violet and they blow like spirits into the room. He knows this without seeing it, but feels the breeze across his skin. The fluttering of curtains into a room has long been one of his singular comforts, a simple ocular pleasure. He could open his eyes, but keeps them closed. He lies still and naked on the bed, crushed under the weight of his love.

He had come crying her name and not caring who heard him. He pictures Dembe and the others in the next room looking up from their hands of cards and trying not to roll their eyes as they listen to him choke out her name in rhythm with the jet of his orgasm.

Dembe has been giving him that look lately. That look that says, _Raymond, you are so close to the edge. Back up my friend. I worry for you._

Red worries too. All that is left is this constant worry.

 _What was it that made me so fucking hard anyway?_ He wonders. His breath has stilled, but his guilt and despair surges and the discomfort brings with it the need to deconstruct this transgression. He traverses his thoughts back through each station of memory in his highlight reel. But he cannot find a single clue.

Maybe he has had too much to drink.

Maybe her essence came to him like a ghost and possessed his body. It had certainly felt as though he was not a man in control of himself.

Maybe it was the memory of her mouth on his that night they kissed on the ship. Maybe it was the wind blowing through his window that conjured up tactile memories of her skin under his hands, his fingers woven into her hair, his mouth sucking her lips, her chin, her neck. Maybe it was remembering what it was to breathe at last, her flesh beneath his.

Maybe it was the memory of her lips wrapped tenderly around his cock, moving up and down in the perfect pace. Maybe it was how she hummed and moaned deep in her throat as she took him, deeper and deeper, urging him to spurt hot and hard against the moist interior of her sweet, little mouth.

 _Wait._

That never happened.

His fantasies mingle with reality as he lies motionless on the bed.

He needs to get up. He needs to shower. He needs to take a walk, to look like he is in charge. He needs to wander into the village and eat something.

Is the village within walking distance here?

He's lost track of where he is and why he is there. The hours have slipped out of his days. Days have lost their meaning. He needs Lizzie. He cannot do it without her any longer.

It becomes the only plausible solution.

He will have her brought to him. He will show her and explain and prove himself. He will make everything up to her over and over again. He will give her as many babies as she wants. She will grow to love him. She will. She must.

It is the only solution.

He sits up, but does so too quickly and finds himself dizzy. He lies back down, but this time with his head on the pillows. He curls onto his side. It is hopeless to try to get anything else done tonight and he falls asleep thinking this, and composing a sonnet in his mind that will be lost come morning.


	21. Tranquil

At first she thinks she is still asleep and dreaming when she feels the warmth of another human body beside her.

She rolls over in bed to find Liz propped up on the pillows, awake and staring at the wall. She's nibbling on the cuticle of her thumb, staring off into the room. Samar's vision is blurred from just waking, and to her half asleep eyes, Liz looks soft, enchanted.

Samar rubs sleep from her eyes and sits up on her elbow.

"Have you been awake long?"

"Not really," Liz says. She smiles down into Samar's sleepy gaze. "And I actually slept last night for more than a few consecutive hours. It's the first time in ages that has happened."

"That's good. I'm glad." Samar reaches for Liz's hand and is relieved when Liz allows her to take it. She's even more relieved that Liz's sustained smile does not seem in the least awkward or forced. "See what happens when you don't have a motel room of drunk 20 year olds partying next to you?"

"Well, maybe that is part of it. But it's something else too. It's like you have this tranquilizing effect on me," Liz sighs, then raises an eyebrow and regards Samar coyly from beneath her lashes. "You didn't drug me, did you?"

"No, Elizabeth, I did not drug you," Samar says and they both laugh at the joke, but Samar can't help thinking _if she only knew_.

She feels a smug satisfaction that she stuck to her guns and did not even flirt with the notion of using any kind of chemical to 'relax' Liz, other than the simple chemistry of affection. Although, if she is honest with herself, she must admit it is more than simple affection she feels looking at the delicate woman in her cami and sleep shorts in the bed of her newly furnished guest room. She recalls the sensation of Liz brushing her hand against her breast last night as they kissed, and a shudder goes straight to her core. She sits up and stretches her legs out in front of her, crossing them, trying to distract her body's erotic response by shifting positions.

 _I'm afraid she's not your Lizzie anymore_ , she remembers saying to Reddington that day when they'd met in the library. _But is she mine?_ Samar adds the silent question to her memory, as she reclines against the bed, and with it comes a sad worry.

She could not have predicted any of this back only a few short weeks ago. Of course she had been instantly drawn to Liz from the moment she first saw her. But they had such a rocky start to their relationship, and as it eventually settled, Samar had contented herself with the notion they could be casual friends. This intimacy over the past few weeks is more than she ever dreamed would be possible. The fact Liz allowed Samar into her life after shutting out just about the entire rest of the world is not only humbling, but intoxicating.

Samar can't help but bring Liz's fingers to her lips. She opens the woman's pale hand, kisses each finger tip before pressing her palm to her lips, sighing deeply into her skin. Then she presses Liz's hand against her throat and her eyes roll back in her head. It's almost more than she can bear. She clears her throat and blinks back tears as she returns Liz's hand with a smile meant to be playful and reassuring.

"What on earth are you thinking." She asks, and curls onto her side to face Samar. Liz loops a tendril of Samar's black hair around her recently returned finger and twirls it.

"I'm glad you feel comfortable with me," she manages to reply.

"I am, Samar," Liz says. She drapes a leg over Samar and cuddles closer. "Very comfortable."

"So, are you alright? With what happened last night?"

"Yes," Liz answers, and nods, although the smile disappears and her face grows serious. It is an expression Samar recognizes from hours at work when Liz is focused and considering the details of a case, looking for a lead. Liz takes a deep breath before she continues, "You know, when I was in school, getting my psychology degree, we had a term for women like me."

"What do you mean?"

"We used to call them 'Trauma Lesbians'. Women who had been so damaged by men that they had no other acceptable path but to turn to other women for love, comfort, romance."

Samar loosens her embrace on Liz. Her brows come together as her brain tries to assimilate what Liz is telling her.

"Um, I'm not exactly sure how I feel about that," Samar says, attempting to keep her tone slow and steady, and not give away how her heart races.

"Yeah. Me either."

Samar is prepared to get up, and exit with as much grace as she can retain. Neither of them were ready for this. Things have moved too fast and they need to slow down. The room needs to stop spinning and Samar's heart needs to stop beating so fast. She should have known better. She should have never allowed these feelings to seep into her professional relationship with Keen, or with the task she has undertaken for Reddington.

She is prepared to get up and put some space between them. She's not prepared for it when Liz turns, graceful as a mermaid, wraps her arms around Samar and kisses her. It feels good and right at first, and then suddenly it feels painful because Samar knows it can not be. It is all happening too fast.

Samar pushes her away. "Not fair," she says. "You got up and brushed your teeth." It is her feeble attempt at breaking the spell Liz has cast on her.

"Samar? What's wrong?"

Samar slides out of bed. "I've got a busy day."

"What could you possibly have to do today? It's Saturday."

"Yes, well, I told Cooper I would come in and type up some reports today." Samar lies. She starts toward the door.

"Uh, what just happened here?" Liz says, tossing the covers off of her and getting up on her knees in the bed. "Samar! Stop! Talk to me." She pleads to Samar's back.

Samar turns around and takes a deep breath to smother the pain and anger she is suddenly feeling.

" _Trauma lesbian_?" Samar rolls the dice, and with it reveals the heart that has crept down her sleeve and is poking at her arm, demanding attention. "Look. Liz. I like you. I really like you. To be completely honest, I have probably been falling for you since I first came on at the task force. But I do not want to force you into becoming anything you don't want to be. I don't want you to look back and feel like I manipulated you into anything you didn't truly want, because you were traumatized or lonely or whatever. If you want to be with me. . . well, that's another story. But I think you need to figure that out for yourself." Samar delivers this speech with as much composure as she can muster, standing still with perfect posture, her hands by her thighs. She's learned how to say such things with a poise that skirts robotic, even when she is truly flustered, even when she feels as though her heart is falling like a baby bird out of a nest and about to collide with rough and unyielding pavement. "I think maybe I should give you a bit of space."

"Hey!" Liz bounces out of bed and is next to Samar in an instant. "No, please. Please. I don't want you to go. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"Yes. Well."

"It is confusing, Samar. I can't help that. But I feel drawn to you too, and I want to see where it goes. I just. . . I've never done this before." She waves her hand back and forth between them in a frantic figure eight.

Samar can't help but smile. "This?" She says, imitating Liz's hand gesture. Liz grabs her hand and pulls Samar into a hug. Samar returns the embrace and kisses Liz's neck. "Liz, I know you have been through a lot. I don't want to put any other pressure on you. I won't ask you for anything. If you want to see where this goes, I'm game. But if you're not ready, I don't want to start something that will hurt either of us."

"Samar, I don't know if I am ready. I want to be honest with you about that." Liz says in a small voice.

"It's fine," Samar says. She squeezes Liz before breaking the embrace. "Really. It's fine. I'll give you some space."

"I don't want any space." Liz raises her hands and holds her arms in an awkward position at 90 degrees for a moment before decisively placing them on Samar's waist. She pulls Samar's hips towards hers until they are touching. "I don't know much these days. But I definitely know I do not want any space from you right now."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

Samar sighs and yields to the embrace. "But Liz, this can't just be about damage. I care for you. For all of you. Not just your damage. And I do not want you to become intimate with me simply because of mine. Can you understand that?"

"Of course," Liz says. "I'm so sorry. It was a poor choice of words. I've just never felt this way, you know, for a. . ." she gulps and shakes her head with a funny little smile.

"Do you mean for a woman," Samar says, completing Liz's sentence in a sultry voice while sucking in the bottom of her full, dark lip.

"Yes," Liz breathes. "For a gorgeous and mysterious woman."

"Ok, I'll stay," Samar says.

"Good," Liz says. She strokes the sides of Samar's waist and then hooks her arms around Samar's neck and pulls her face down for a kiss, which becomes slow and deep and elicits little moans from both of their throats. When they part, they are both breathless. "I think I could keep kissing you all day." Liz offers. She wiggles against Samar's body and they both sense the heat flowing between their hips.

"This is a good thing," Samar whispers and kisses Liz again.

"So, do you really have a busy day today?" Liz asks, moving her lips across Samar's collarbone.

"No." Samar says. "No, I do not have anything on my agenda today."

"So we can do this all day?" Liz smiles ironically and moves her hand in that figure eight gesture between them again.

"Yes, we can. If that is what you want." Samar laughs.

"It is very much what I want."

"Very well then. Oh, and Keen?"

"Yeah?" Liz nibbles on Samar's neck.

"Kissing one woman one time does not a lesbian make, trauma or otherwise," Samar says and can't help but utter a slight moan as Liz nips her earlobe.

"Really?" Liz asks, her morning voice buzzing close to Samar's ear.

"Really."

"Hmm. Well, let's see what we can do about that then." Liz brings her hand up to boldly cup Samar's breast as she deepens her kiss, and pulls her back to the bed which they fall into with a soft thud.


	22. Here

_**A/n: In which the intimacy between our lovely ladies deepens and intensifies. This chapter is NSFW and is mostly erotic fluff, so turn back now if such things offend. If not, then simply sit back and enjoy the glory that is Lizvabi. This chapter is dedicated to theBeautifulBadass who is always most encouraging in all things Lizvabi, and to D. . . for helping with a sprinkle of inspiration. Please, please feel free to comment because I love to hear from you just about as much as Samar loves Liz.**_

Everything becomes a tangle of legs and arms and fingers. Their hair falls everywhere and gets in their mouths as they kiss. They barely stop to brush it out of the way before continuing their exploration of one another. Breath comes hard and fast as they bite at each other's lips and necks.

"We don't have to rush things," Samar says, her voice choked with desire. She's on top, looking down at Liz. Liz wraps her legs boldly around Samar and wiggles against her. Samar responds by increasing the pressure of her own hips against Liz. They moan in tandem, and for a second, Samar is frightened she has hurt the woman beneath her. She supports herself on her arms in a pushup position over Liz. "Are you okay? I don't want to hurt you, if you are still. . . healing." Her words fumble into a double entendre, she realizes.

"No. I'm okay," Liz says and pulls her back down on top of her. "I'm healed. It's been six weeks. Everything down there is okay."

Samar brushes the hair off Liz's face and they hold each other's gaze. This communion of their eyes has an oddly erotic effect on both women and their breath rates accelerate. Samar tells herself to take it slow, but she can't help but slip the strap of Liz's cami off of her shoulder, and kiss the soft expanse of bare flesh.

"We can take our time." She says this more for herself than for Liz. "I don't want to rush you. We can wait until you are ready." Even as she speaks these words her fingers are fiddling their way up Liz's top so she can touch her skin. She craves more skin. Liz arches her back and Samar slips her hand underneath, kneading the curve. Samar is suddenly caught in an avalanche of desire as her kisses fall on Liz's neck. She puts her mouth over Liz breast, over the fabric of her shirt and breathes hot against her. She feels Liz suck her breath in and stiffen beneath her in what Samar fears is a gesture of repulsion or regret. "Oh," she moans. "I'll stop."

"Let's not," Liz pants. She reaches up to brush Samar's tangles of curls off of both their faces, cupping her jaw in her hands and then stroking the tendons of Samar's neck with shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry, Liz. You're just. . . I'm sorry. I got carried away in you for a moment. We can slow down." Samar starts to back off, but Liz pulls her closer.

"No," she whispers. "I mean let's not stop." She raises her head off the pillow to catch Samar's mouth with her own, nipping at her bottom lip and drawing her back to a kiss.

"Are you certain?"

"I'm certain," Liz replies as she slides her hands under Samar's shirt and starts to pull it off of her. Samar sits up slightly to help her with this effort and watches as Liz takes in her naked torso, her blue eyes wide and gleaming with lust.

Liz touches Samar's bare flesh, her fingers skimming lightly over her neck and shoulders, down over her elegant collarbone, and down further over the tops of her breasts. Samar's head goes back and she moans as Liz strokes the taut violet skin of her nipples. Samar leans down over her and they kiss again.

Liz increases the pressure of her legs around Samar's waist and Samar licks Liz's jaw and the tip of her earlobe and they moan at the sensation of their hips grinding together. Samar feels her own wetness spreading hot in her panties. She wonders if this is having the same effect on Liz, and suddenly becomes fearful that Liz could be regretting all of this. Any doubt of concern she has is assuaged as she feels Liz's hands slide fearlessly underneath the waistband of her pajama pants, sliding over the flesh of her ass.

Samar needs more of Liz's skin and she sits up again to pull off the cami she is still wearing. Samar licks her lips as she sees Liz's bare breasts, her nipples pink and pebbled against her ivory skin. It has been so long since she has been with a woman, let alone a woman she adores, and for a moment, Samar is paralyzed by the beauty beneath her. She is jolted from this paralysis when Liz pulls her down and their bare chests meet against one another for the first time. They both gasp at the silky sensation. Samar holds herself up on her hands so that she can slide her own breasts over Liz's, teasing back and forth, their nipples almost painfully aroused by this contact. It is nearly enough to make Samar come, just like that, rubbing herself on Liz, pressing her hips against her. It is nearly enough, but not quite.

Liz pushes Samar's pajama pants down, along with her panties, until they are around Samar's ankles, and Samar kicks out of them. She does the same with Liz's shorts. And as they are both finally and completely naked with one another, Liz brings her arms around Samar and holds her close and tight against her. They each bury their face against the other's neck, breathing in the individual perfumes of their skin and hair and sweat as it mingles together and becomes one exotic fragrance.

"Are you ok?" Samar whispers. "We can stop. We can stop anytime if it is too much."

"No. I don't want to stop. I don't ever want to stop."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Liz replies and then moans as she thrusts her hips against Samar. "You feel so good, Samar. But I'm not sure exactly what to do."

"Neither am I."

"What are you talking about? I thought you've done this before?"

"Oh, I have. But I have never done this before with you. And I just don't know where I want to begin with you." She lowers her head and starts licking Liz's nipple with the tip of her tongue, lightly at first and then with a bit more pressure. "Perhaps, I will start here," she purrs. She works her way over to the other nipple and does the same, while alternately pinching and kneading the other breast with her hand.

"Mmmm, oh," Liz sighs.

"How is that? Is that a good place to start?"

"Yeah." Liz thrusts her hips up and moans as Samar continues kissing and fondling her breasts. "But I want to touch you too," Liz whimpers.

"All in good time. Today, I get you first," Samar growls with a delicious smile. Liz's response has given her the permission and reinforcement she needs to allow instinct and urge to take over. She kisses Liz's mouth, and strokes down her torso, over her hips, and in between their bellies to find Liz's soft slit. She probes gently at it with her fingers, opening Liz to find that she is very hot and very wet. Samar moans into Liz's mouth as her fingers slide easily over the tiny pearl of Liz's clit. She uses her index and middle fingers to swirl around her. "You feel incredible," she groans, flicking her tongue over one of Liz's nipples, then lowering her mouth to suck it in. Liz is blissfully responsive as she squirms and arches under Samar's mouth and fingers.

Liz arches her neck and back, breathing hard and whining helplessly as Samar's fingers slip over her and then into her. Samar is tentative at first, holding back with fear still that she might hurt her. Liz surprises her by thrusting onto her fingers with a lusty moan and clenching around her. The undulation of Liz's hips encourages Samar to cast aside any caution and take her fully, plunging and curling her fingers inside of her while applying pressure to her clit with her the heel of her palm.

Samar looks at Liz and finds her head is back and her eyes are closed. "Elizabeth." She says, almost sternly as she stills her hand. "Open your eyes." Liz obliges and Samar allows her to ride her fingers so long as their eyes remain engaged. When Liz tries to look away, Samar stops until she opens her eyes and looks back. "Stay here with me."

"I'm here," Liz pants.

"Are you? Are you here with me?"

"Oh, Samar. Yes. Yes. I'm here with you." Her fingers press into the small of Samar's back, nails dig in just slightly to elicit a hiss from the woman whose hand is pleasuring her.

Samar can feel how close Liz is, can feel her muscles clenching deeply around Samar's fingers. And if she looks away or closes her eyes even for a moment, Samar stops and Liz opens her eyes, whimpering desperately as she bucks her hips up against Samar's hand. Samar rests her forehead on Liz's and their eyes are open to one another, so close there is nothing else.

"You're close," Samar whispers.

"Oh my god, yes," Liz yelps breathlessly. She rotates her hips, grinding her clit against the ball of Samar's thumb as she tumbles towards the edge.

"Can you feel it?"

"Ah, uh huh."

"Don't close your eyes. Stay here."

"I'm here. Oh god, oh fuck, Samar, I'm here."

"Elizabeth," Samar moans. She's been rubbing against Liz's thigh and is awfully close to coming herself.

"I'm here. I'm here," she chants pulsing against Samar's hand. Her eyes are wide open, even as she and Samar kiss, their lips lush and engorged with the heat of their exertions, her eyes are wide open and she is falling as far as she possibly can into Samar's black irises. "I'm so close! I'm here. Oh god, oh fuck, oh god, Samar!" She babbles incoherently, and weaves her fingers into Samar's thick, dark curls that spill around her face. The sound of her voice has pushed Samar to the edge, and she gets ready to come against Liz's thigh.

"Come with me," she gasps. "Now. Oh, Elizabeth. Come with me now!"

"I'm with you!" Liz cries and releases a gushing climax around Samar's fingers as Samar compresses her clit against Liz's thigh and sobs hoarsely with the intensity of her own orgasm.

They hold each other tightly, despite their ragged breath, as they ride out the pulses of pleasure. Liz whines slightly as Samar removes her fingers from inside of her so that she can wrap both of her arms around Liz. Samar nuzzles Liz's nose with her own and kisses her eyelids which are now closed as she regains herself. Liz smiles and opens her eyes.


	23. Now

_**A/n: Because you knew Samar and Liz would be cuddling and having pillow talk after their encounter, right? Enjoy the fluff while it lasts, my lovelies!**_

"Are we lovers now?" She whispers her question against Samar's lips.

"I should say so." Samar slides off of Liz and settles beside her, their arms still around one another. Samar pulls the covers up over them. For a little while they are quiet with one another as they bask in the morning, and stroke each other's skin. Their breath slows. Samar clears her throat and asks, "Are you ok? Was it. . ." her voice trails off.

"Why, Agent Navabi," Liz chuckles and turns her head slightly to regard the other woman with an eyebrow raised incredulously. "Are you feeling insecure in your sexual prowess?"

"Not necessarily," Samar sighs. "I just wanted your first time to be nice."

"Mmmmm," Liz purrs. She kisses Samar. "It was better than nice. It was amazing. I didn't even know my body could still feel like that. Actually, I don't know if my body has ever felt like that before."

"This is a good thing. Because I plan on making your body feel like that, and more, as often as I possibly can."

"I won't argue," Liz laughs. "But Samar?"

"What?"

"Did you. . ."

"Oh my god, you couldn't feel it? I thought it was going to send shockwaves throughout the neighborhood you made me come so hard. Yes. I 'did'." She curls her fingers in air quotes on the last word. Those glorious, perfect fingers that had just been inside of Liz, making insanely glorious and perfect sensations happen throughout her entire body. Liz shivers as she relives the smoldering heat of their passion. She drapes a leg over Samar and curls closer to her under the covers.

"But I didn't get to touch you."

"Yes. But I was touching you, and how you felt was," her voice trails off as she takes a deep breath and smiles. "Well, let's just say you felt even better than I imagined you would."

"So, you've. . . imagined this?"

"Oh my god yes. Like hundreds of times, if you must know."

"Really? Huh. I never knew. How did I never know?"

"Well," Samar says, drawing out the word against Liz's forehead. "I think you were a bit preoccupied with other matters. And I have a way of playing my cards close to my chest."

"You? No! You don't say," Liz teases. Samar chuckles in response.

"Anyway, you know now and you're here, actually here in my arms."

"I am." Liz says and laces her own fingers into the fingers that Samar just had deep inside of her. She nuzzles her head into the crook of Samar's shoulder and tips her face up so she can whisper into Samar's ear, "But I want to touch you too."

"You will," Samar says and closes her eyes against the glaring brightness of the morning. "Don't worry. You will."

"Is it like this every time?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know."

"No. I don't know. Explain."

"Well, is it like this every time. . . with a woman?"

"Not necessarily," Samar sighs. "It can be very nice. But it is much nicer when it happens with someone for whom you are very fond."

"And you're fond of me?"

"Yes."

"Very fond, even?"

"I told you I was."

"Well, maybe I just want to hear you say it again," Liz says softly, playfully.

Samar sits up in the bed and looks down at Liz. Her dusky lips are pursed and her eyes are intense. "I'll tell you as often as you like. I'm quite fond of you. Possibly much more than fond. But please, don't toy with me, Elizabeth."

"I would never," Liz says. "And I've grown very fond of you too."

"There has just been so much hurt." Samar turns and draws her knees up to her chest. She rests her forehead against her knees.

"But that's just it, Samar. I don't hurt when I am with you. And I don't think that you hurt when you're with me." Liz extends her hand and strokes down the little bumps of Samar's spine. "Do you?"

Samar turns her head to look at Liz. "No. I don't hurt when I am with you. It's almost frightening how good it feels to be with you."

"I find it hard to imagine you being frightened of anything." Liz's hand comes to rest at the base of Samar's spine. Samar closes her eyes, giving in to the feeling of skin against skin, the heat of touch and desire.

"I could get lost in you," she says, eyes still closed.

"Is that what you're afraid of?"

"Yes. Among other things."

"What other things?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"You don't know or you don't want to say?" Liz persists.

"Are you always this chatty after making love?" Samar flops back down against the pillows.

"Say that again."

"What? Are you always this chatty?"

"No. The other part."

"After making love?"

"Yeah. Say that again."

"Making love," Samar whispers against Liz's ear. Liz closes her eyes, smiles, and squirms closer to her.

"Again."

"Did you enjoy making love with me, Elizabeth?"

"Yes," Liz whispers. "And I want to do it again. And again." She turns and swipes her tongue over Samar's bottom lip.

"You want to do what, exactly?" Samar teases.

"I want to make love with you, Samar."

"Then it is settled. We will make. . . love," she purrs, drawing out the words and pulling Liz into a deep kiss. "But I think first we need to have something to eat and some coffee."

"If we must," Liz chirps. Samar finds herself smiling almost madly at the pleasure in Liz's voice. She wonders if she has ever heard the other woman so cheerful before. She is trying to savor this happy moment as her phone starts buzzing on the nightstand next to her. Her joy becomes a cold pit in her stomach as she glances at the caller id and lets the call go to voicemail. __


	24. Cracking

_Hello you have reached the cell phone Agent Samar Navabi with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Counter Terrorism Division. Please leave a message with your name and number and a brief description of the matter about which you are calling. I will return your call within 24 hours. If this is an urgent matter, please page my Assistant Director, Harrold Cooper, at 202-535-7900._

"Agent Navabi. I think you know who this is, and I know you know my number. I am calling you on your work cell because it seems you have misplaced the burner cell I gave you, and on which I have been trying to contact you for no less than the past 12 hours.

"I do not even need to say that I will trust your discretion in not even attempting to trace this call or notify your superiors. There. I said it anyway. Oh well.

"This _is_ a matter of some urgency, however I most certainly do not want to speak with your Assistant Director, Harold Cooper, much as I do enjoy his witty repartee and much as I would love to find out if Donald Ressler has made any improvements diversifying his necktie collection, or if he enjoyed the antique ben wa balls I sent him for his birthday. Sure, it was a bit of a lark and I am dearly sorry that I didn't get to see the look on his face when he opened them, my point being the man needs to loosen up. Anyhoo I digress.

"I would like an update on our project. I would also like to inform you of some recent changes that have been made which I know you will do everything in your power to accommodate. You have exactly one hour to get back in touch with me. If I do not hear from you, I will be forced to assume that you need assistance and I will send Baz to assess the situation. So, call me forthwith, Samar. A deal is a deal, afterall."

He snaps his phone shut in a bit of a huff. It annoys him to be kept waiting and worrying. He knows nothing has happened to Lizzie. Had something dire befallen her, Kate or Baz would have called him immediately. But for Samar to go over 12 hours without returning his calls is beyond insolent of her.

He paces the length of his hotel room, tightens the sash around his bleached, white robe. He strides to the window and pushes the curtains away to look out. Thirty three floors below lies the charming city of Amsterdam. It is a relief to be away from the ocean, to be nowhere near the lull of the water churning sand and pebbles, not to feel the breeze across his skin. It had grown unbearable. It had soothed him at first, as it always did, but then being there without Lizzie had grown torturous. He needed the sterile comfort of a city without any triggers.

Thank heavens it isn't tulip season.

Of course the idea he can go anywhere, tulips or no, without painful thoughts of her is absurd. His thoughts are like a tumor, growing out of control, sending agonizing waves of despair through his entire being.

"Lizzie," he whispers, and presses his forehead against the glass of the window. "Lizzie," he says again, trying to relieve the tension that mounts in his chest. His breath creates little clouds of vapor on the window pane.

He goes out to the sitting room where breakfast is laid on the table.

He's sits and picks up a spoon to tap against the smooth shell of an egg in a porcelain egg cup. He gingerly cracks the top and removes the broken bit of shell. He regards the warm, mush of soft boiled contents within. He inserts a sliver of butter, and then grinds some salt over it. He takes his fork and digs out a bit which he then smears over a piece of toast. He bites into it. He chews, contemplating the humble perfection of this meal. It is elegant in its simplicity.

He has concocted a plan to bring Lizzie to him that is equally simple and perfect. When he shared it with Dembe, he had been subjected to the man's impassive face shifting, ever so subtly, into its look of disapproval.

But as he swallows his egg and toast, he is certain. He is absolutely certain this is the way to protect her, to keep her close, and to show her the full extent of his adoration. The power of his love will assure reciprocity.

His lips caress the rim of his coffee cup. Coffee, sweet and hot spills down his throat, washes down the masticated egg and toast and leaves a satisfying taste in his mouth.

He always did love the perfect plan. He has a knack for them, honestly. It fills him with a sensation he can only label as hope, because to call the feeling obsession would be to doubt the efficacy of his plan.

And there is no room for doubt. Not even an inch.


	25. Splitting

She waits until Liz is in the shower.

In her head there is an agenda a mile long. It starts with listening to the message on her work cell. How dare he? He should know those phones are monitored. It's an incredibly stupid and desperate move on his part.

And then it strikes her.

She's slept with Liz.

She's fallen for this woman she is supposed to be protecting for another man. A man who was in the FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted list for two decades.

"What in the actual fuck was I thinking," she hisses under her breath as she picks up the phone. His message is over a minute long. She deletes it and presses her thumb into the lock on the safe next to the bed. She digs out the burner cell and calls him.

He answers on the first ring.

"Everything is fine," she says. "There is no cause for concern."

"How is she?" He asks without a greeting or preface.

"She's okay," Samar begins.

"Where is she living?"

"She was staying in a motel outside of Arlington. I convinced her to come and stay with me for a few weeks, until she can get back on her feet, but I assume you already knew that. She moved in yesterday." Samar says. She also assumes he knows how much time they have been spending together, and that there was an occasion when Samar stayed over in the dingy motel.

"Well. Isn't that cozy. I didn't know that yet," he says. "But it is good you got her out of that motel. Thank you. I'm concerned for her safety."

"I think she is safe here," Samar begins but he cuts her off.

"Listen to me, Samar, I don't have much time. When I did away with Tom Keen I inadvertently activated a protocol that is moving a lot more swiftly than I can explain at the moment. But Elizabeth is most definitely not safe. Even with the protective detail I have around her, she is at risk. I trust you've given her the item?"

"Yes," Samar lies, her heart pounding in her throat as it does when she is panicking but trying not to. Her brain flashes back to when she was captured at the black site in the middle of the Pacific when they went after Braxton. She remembers the chain around her neck and how her feet slipped and slid in her own blood on the block. She remembers the split in her brain; the panic on one side and the numbness on the other.

That is precisely how she feels at this moment on the phone with Reddington as her new lover showers on the other side of the wall. Her brain is splitting. "But she will not even look at it. She knows it's from you," she ad libs helplessly.

"She will have to," he says. "You've got to get her to me. I can keep her safe."

"She won't come," she flounders. "She won't have anything to do with you."

"If she won't come willingly then you will have to make her. I'll have Mr. Kaplan send over a kit in case you need to do some medical coercion."

"I've told you before I will not drug her," Samar whispers into the phone.

"You're whispering, Samar," Red says. "Where is Lizzie right now?"

"She's in the shower."

"Very well, then we will keep our exchange short and sweet. There will be instructions sent to you for a meet up. You will bring her. The rest will be taken care of and you and I will settle our affairs."

"Are you talking about abducting Elizabeth?"

"Abducting implies something nefarious," Red says. "I would like to think of this as more of a rescue mission. She will eventually see the goodness of my ways."

"I am not going to allow you to kidnap her. Do you hear me, Reddington? It will not happen. I will not go along with this."

"It's not a suggestion, Agent Navabi. It is a direct order."

"Last time I checked, I answer to the FBI. I was doing you a favor, and I was happy to do it, but this is above and beyond what I am willing to do, even for you."

"I can send a tactical team to scoop her up. But it would probably be far less traumatic for her if someone she knows and trusts executes this. This will happen one way or the other, and after everything she has been through I would like for this to cause as little disruption as possible. Her safety is imperative. It is the only thing that matters now. The rest I will fix once we secure her protection."

"I think she's planning to kill you." Samar utters in desperation.

"That is something I can live with, as long as we get her someplace safe."

"Give me some more time," Samar begs. "A few weeks. I can help her calm down. I can keep her safe, and then help her move elsewhere without this destructive coercion you have planned. She'll never forgive either of us."

"Agent Navabi, we are out of time. This happens by the end of the week, preferably sooner. Kaplan will be in touch." There is a moment of silence before he says, "You understand what you are to do?"

"Yes," she says. The call dies, but she sits there in bed, holding the phone to her ear for at least another two minutes before she places the phone back in the safe and closes it.

"Samar?" Liz calls from the bathroom. Samar jumps off of the bed, startled. She goes into the hallway, and pushes the bathroom door open.

"Yes. Did you need something?"

"Um. Yeah. I need for you to come in here and join me," Liz says. She pokes her head out from the shower curtain and crooks her index finger at Samar, beckoning her. Samar approaches. Liz takes her face in her wet hands and kisses her. "It's lonely in here without you," she says.

Samar looks at Liz. She looks so happy. Genuinely happy for the first time in weeks, maybe even months. Her brain digs up the image of Liz's face when Samar had told her she was going to plan a baby shower for her. Dark shadows had pressed themselves under Liz's eyes, and Samar had wondered if every woman was so tired when they were pregnant. She had wondered if it was just a myth that women were supposed to have a blessed glow when expecting. She understands now how much Liz had had on her mind- her ambivalence for Tom, her anxiety towards Reddington, her desire for a healthy child that would not know the peril she had endured.

And here she is, at ease, cheerfully inviting Samar to join her in the shower, having traveled through hell and back. _How does one become so strong?_ Samar wonders. _Could this be the Warrior Gene allowing Liz to exhibit true resilience in the face of despair._

"Well, what are you waiting for," Liz murmurs. Samar strips her shirt and underpants off and steps into the shower. She wraps her arms around Liz's slick body and holds her close as the water saturates them both. "Mmmmm. You feel so good," Liz says.

"So do you," Samar replies. Her body is responding to Liz's hands as they slide over her back and ass, to the sensation of Liz's breasts pressed against her own. Liz lowers her face and takes one of Samar's nipples into her mouth, sucking and biting it gently and then with increasing pressure. Samar moans. Her lusty noise encourages Liz to take the other breast in her hand. It's not been a full hour since they first made love, and yet Samar feels her knees buckling with desire. Even with the threat of danger and Reddington and discovery of this precious affair imminent, Samar craves more of Liz.

She remembers after she and Saida discovered one another's bodies for the first time. They were so young, so innocent, and so curious. She remembers how they did not want to stop exploring each other, not even to go to school.

So it is now, with Elizabeth, and she can tell that the other woman feels the same as her fingers press into Samar's skin. But then, suddenly, Liz stops.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, why?" Samar pants.

"Your heart is racing," Liz says. "I can feel it under my lips."

"It's just what you're doing to me," Samar says.

"I want you again," Liz whispers.

"Well, you can have me. I'm all yours." Samar kisses Liz, her tongue sweeping into her mouth. She grabs Liz's ass in her hand and clutches it, pressing hard against her.

"Can I touch you now?"

"Yes."

"Show me," Liz pleads, her voice shy and sultry at the same time.

Samar turns so her back is to Liz and reaches back to grab Liz's hands and wrap her arms around her waist, so Liz is holding her. Liz's breasts squish against Samar's shoulders. Samar guides Liz's left hand up to her breast, and then slowly guides her right hand down until it is at the mound between Samar's legs. Liz pinches at Samar's nipple and she nibbles on Samar's neck as the fingers of her right hand move gently into Samar's wet folds. Liz moans, her cheek on Samar's back as she touches Samar for the first time.

"Now what?" Liz whispers.

"Pretend I'm you," Samar says and turns her head to devour Liz's mouth with her own. "Touch me like you would touch yourself."

Liz's fingers slip and slide over Samar, easily finding the erect bundle of Samar's clit and working it in slow circles. She speeds up as Samar moans and writhes in her arms. It is not long before Samar's entire body goes rigid and she gasps, then comes completely undone under Liz's eager fingers. Samar turns and holds Liz, kissing her over and over and giving thanks that the hot spray of water from the shower masks the tears that flow down her cheeks.


	26. Matters

_**A/N: This chapter contains graphic sexual content, and issues of non con. Please consider rating before reading. If this is a trigger for you, please consider skipping this chapter.**_

He hovers over her.

She's been sedated. She's sleepy. In and out.

This isn't exactly how he'd planned their reunion, but that hardly matters now. She's here.

He reaches for the covers to pull them up closer around her, but his hand hesitates. Instead, he pulls the covers off of her, reveals her slender body.

She's been dressed in a loose, light blue nightgown. She writhes slightly. The material bunches around her legs as she moves.

He smoothes his hand over her, trying to straighten out her nightdress. He can feel the warmth of her underneath the thin material. He encircles her wrist with his hand and strokes up her arm to her elbow. He leans down and kisses her forehead. His lips linger. He kisses her cheek. His lips move to her lips, where they linger for a moment. Longer. He's growing excited. The sensation of her flesh beneath his lips and fingers is almost too much for him to bear. He's waited so long. He lowers his mouth to suckle at the hollow in between her collar bones, his tongue flicking into it like a cat at a bowl of cream.

She attempts to move her arm.

But he is holding it down. Even his gentle pressure is enough.

She's not fully conscious.

He clears his throat and rises from her neck. He inhales deeply. Vanilla. Rose. Amber. A waft of peony from a vase on the other side of the room. Lizzie.

His shoulders rise and fall.

He stands. He removes his jacket and folds it carefully before placing it over a chair. He turns back to her. He unbuttons his vest. It is a silent task as his fingers twist each button through its hole. Then comes the muffled rustle as he removes the vest and places it with his jacket. He loosens and slips his tie from his collar. He unbuttons the top buttons of his dress shirt. His hands fall to his sides. His fingers splay next to his own hips. He bites his lip, tries to gather himself.

Her eyes roll. She's breathing hard. Her brow wrinkles. She's trying to focus. Her eyes close again. Her breath slows.

"There, there," he growls. He doesn't mean for his voice to sound so harsh. He tries again, hoping for a more tender tone, as he approaches the bed. "There, there." It is the same voice that rumbles from his chest, nothing he can do to make it softer or different for her.

His fingers brush the hair from her forehead. He sits down on the edge of the bed. His idea is just to sit there, but his body is moved to toe off his shoes and lie next to her. He takes her hand in his. He raises it to his lips. He curls on his side and faces her. He nuzzles his face into her neck and inhales. "Oh, Lizzie," he groans. His cock strains against his pants. He takes her hand and presses it over the bulge. He grunts into the crook of her neck as his hips slide in her direction.

She whimpers.

It is a noise that could be construed as encouragement or protest.

He needs to feel her skin on his.

This is not how he imagined their reunion, but. . .

Her hand is so soft.

He raises her hand in one of his own to his lips as his other hand unbuttons his pants and sets the little train of his zipper in motion down its tracks. He suckles on her knuckles and then forces two of her fingers into his mouth as he slides his pants down over his hips. He takes her fingers out of his mouth and bites her shoulder. Her skin. He needs her skin.

She wants it too.

At least he thinks she does.

He pumps his cock in his fist a few times, licking and biting at her flesh. It isn't enough. He brings her hand down and wraps her fingers around his hard length. He holds her hand against him and thrusts himself up into her palm. She's silky, but dry. He needs more. He unbuttons his shirt and strips it off. He peels off his undershirt. He pushes up her nightgown to reveal her breasts. He lowers his face, kisses and nips. He licks the underside of one of her breasts, tastes the salt of her sweat. It worsens his thirst for her.

She squirms and whimpers underneath him.

"I've waited so long for this," he murmurs. He devours her mouth with his.

She doesn't kiss him back. She tries weakly to turn her head away. She's sedated. In and out.

He rolls over her, supports himself on his forearms.

He's naked. He's on top of her.

She's naked beneath him. Well, mostly. Her nightdress is up around her neck like a shawl of blue silk. That hardly matters. The thought that it is a noose of fabric briefly flickers in his mind and he pushes it out as he inhales her, rubs his cheek against hers.

The vase of peony distracts him with its overpowering, sweet scent. He could smash it against the wall. He wants to smell Lizzie. Vanilla. Amber. Black current. It wants to be awash in the spicy fragrance of her and her alone. He refocuses on the woman beneath him. He kisses the line of her jaw as he chokes back the violent impulse to destroy the vase of flowers.

Her head moves side to side on the pillow.

Consciousness eludes her.

"You'll see. It's all for you. For us. We will be free and we can love one another. Like this. Oh my god, Lizzie, like this."

He presses his cock into her thigh. She's so soft. She yields beneath him. Her skin. He needs her skin. He grabs at one of her breasts as he slurps the nipple of her other breast into his mouth. He groans as he sucks at her, rubbing himself against her. He grunts in agitation. He had not planned that their reunion would be this sloppy and hasty, but that hardly matters. He could come just now, just like this with her breast in his mouth, his hand on her skin, his cock pressed into her thigh. But he wants more.

"Mmmmhhh," she whines. He ignores the grimace on her face, or he imposes lust over it. She wants him too. At least he makes himself believe she does.

He lowers himself to taste her. He dips his tongue into her intoxicating flesh. He wets her with his own mouth. His hands knead the flesh of her hips, her ass. He spreads and then presses her thighs down, flat against the bed. He pushes them up so her knees bend up toward her shoulders. He sucks her. He thrusts his tongue between her legs and laps at her. She's sweet and salty and slick as an oyster. He swallows hard.

He crawls back up. He hovers over her. The head of his cock bobs at her dripping opening. He's made her wet. He's made her ready. He will make her his.

He wraps his arms around her. He still hasn't entered. He thrusts his tongue between her lips and searches her mouth. "I'll make you feel so good, Sweetheart," he whispers as he pokes his tongue into the little shell of her her ear and then licks her lobe. He wants to insert himself into every opening she has. He wants to possess every inch of her. He bites her, hard, as he presses his cock into her opening, marking her as he enters. She's sopping wet, dripping and clenching around him. He's going to come before too long. He moves a bit faster, in an out, feeling the suction of her like an invitation. He moves harder, in and out. He pushes in as far as he can go, pulls out to his tip and then back in. He wants to come fast so it can be over and he can feel the relief of letting go and lying in her arms. He'll come fast and they then can do it again and it will be her turn. He grabs her knee, forces it above his shoulder so he can go deeper, harder.

She groans under him.

He moves quicker. In and out.

He gets ready to come with a few final thrusts. As he is about to spill into her, he arches up so he can see her face and push in as far as possible. Her eyes snap open like a doll who has been suddenly sat upright.

"No," she gasps. She is suddenly and completely alert, aware of everything that is happening.

"Please," he grunts. "Just a little more."

"No!" She yelps. She pushes at his shoulders. "Stop!"

He rolls off and sees the blood spreading out in a pool of terrifying crimson around her hips. He has been fucking her in a puddle of blood.

"Oh my god," he gasps. "What have I done?"

He wakes with a start. He sits straight up and tastes a wave of alcohol as it rises in his throat. His hand is jammed down the front of his pajama pants. His dick throbs in his hand. He encircles the sticky head of it with his thumb. "Fuck," he gasps. He licks his lips, trying to ignore the taste of scotch that overwhelms his sinuses. Once. Twice. He strokes himself. He rubs the spot on the bottom, right below his head, with his thumb. His erection wilts into his palm as he wakes a bit more and realizes he will not come. Not like this. Not with the lingering vision of Lizzie bleeding out under him. He ignores the frustration that spreads through his groin. It doesn't matter.

Nothing does. Nothing matters.

He rolls onto his side and sees the silhouette of the peonies on the table by the wall. He inhales and the fragrance taunts him. He sits up and tosses his knees over the edge of the bed. He strides to the flowers and picks up the vase. The vase is a fat, glass receptacle and its water sloshes as he holds it. He walks to the door, opens it and places the vase on the floor outside of his room. He shuts his door with a quiet click, and throws the locks into place before going back to bed.


	27. Today

_**A/N: This chapter contains sexual content. . . and is dedicated to the Beautiful Badass, who had a tricky week and needs a little fluff to cheer her up. Xoxo.**_

"Couldn't you call in sick?" Liz asks.

They have been in bed for long chunks of the weekend, exploring and enjoying one another. Drinking wine. Eating take out. Laughing. Sharing silly stories. Monday morning has come too fast.

"Seeing as you have worked where I work, I think you know that is not possible." Samar says.

"But you seem feverish," Liz laughs, and puts her palm up to Samar's forehead. "It could be serious."

"Oh. It's serious," Samar breathes. She leans against Liz hand and kisses it then nips at it playfully. They kiss. Liz's lips are almost enough to erase that call from Reddington from Samar's mind. Almost. But at the same time, Liz's hot tongue, swirling up against the roof of her mouth reminds Samar of the ticking clock. She only has three more days until Reddington takes matters into his own hands.

She's thought of everything.

She's thought of asking Aram for help. He would surely be discreet and willing, but it would put him in an untenable and dangerous position. He would become a target for Reddington. Samar cares too much for Aram to allow Reddington to mow him down in his pursuit of her and Liz.

Her and Liz.

While they have not yet deconstructed or defined what they are, they are most certainly a "they."

And she's got to come up with something to protect them.

She's also going to have to break it to Liz that they need to flee in a matter of days, and she's not sure how Liz will take it when she finds out Samar has been in almost constant, daily contact with the man who Liz believes destroyed her life. Will Liz still want to roll Samar's nipple between her fingers, bite at Samar's neck, slide her hand down between Samar's legs to where it is dripping and eager.

"I love touching you," Liz whispers as she bites Samar's earlobe. Her fingers undulate up and around the spot where all of Samar's nerves are engorged and screaming out for more.

"You're quite good at it," Samar moans. Her mind is racing, but her body is so responsive to Liz's touch. Her hips arch up to capture every little wave of pleasure. There is a contact she could have make them passports. She has the money in the safe from Reddington, plus what she has put aside, just in case. But where could they go? Where on earth could they possibly go that would be beyond Reddington's reach? "Oh, God. Elizabeth. Oh." Samar pants to the rhythm of Liz's fingers as they stroke her.

"Are you going to come for me?"

"Oh my god, yes," Samar hisses. She grabs Liz's hand and guides it so Liz's index and middle fingers enter her. Liz has been shy about penetrating Samar, and this is the first time Samar has felt her inside of her. But Liz is a quick study, and figures out the pace, and just where to stroke Samar inside while she continues working her clit with her thumb. Samar grabs Liz's head and pulls her into a rough kiss as she thrusts up around Liz's fingers. Samar rides Liz and for a blissful moment her head goes completely silent and numb as all of her energy and attention is directed to the orgasm that gushes around Liz's fingers, as Samar cries out, in a hoarse voice.

Liz leaves her fingers in and puts some pressure over Samar's pulsating mound, easing her down from the stunning climax. She kisses Samar's neck. "That was amazing," she gasps. "I mean, was it good for you?"

"Um, yes. It was very good for me." Samar says. She runs her fingers up and down the inside of Liz's arm. Liz starts to move her hand away and Samar grabs it. "One more moment?"

"Don't mind if I do," Liz says and wiggles her fingers ever so slightly inside of Samar. Samar groans as her eyes roll back in her head. Everything down there is still exquisitely sensitive and Liz's fingers elicit little aftershocks of pleasure. "I love you like this," Liz says.

"What do you mean?" Samar asks, turning her head towards Liz.

"Well," Liz begins with a smile that makes her eyes glitter. "When we're together like this, you just seem so wild and free. And I feel it too. I know it sounds corny, but at work we have to be these super serious people with all these boundaries. And, I mean, we have to be that way to keep ourselves safe. Not to mention so much of my life has been soul-crushing devastation lately. So, when we are together like this. . . well, I just love it. I love the look you get on your face when I touch you. It's like we're on an astral voyage far away from any of the trouble of work or life. And I love the way you feel. I love being inside of you." She whispers this last bit very close to Samar's ear as she grazes her tender spot with her thumb. "I love it so much."

"I love you," Samar whispers, suddenly, and although she had not spent an instant premeditating the words, she knows without a doubt that they are true. She rolls over so she is on top of Liz, looking down into her face. When she does this, Liz's fingers slide out of her and the sudden loss of their intimate placement jolts Samar back into reality. Not knowing what else to do, she wraps her arms around Liz and kisses her hard and deep.

"Did you just say what I thought you said?" Liz asks. She tucks Samar's hair behind her ears and holds her face.

"I did."

"Wow."

"I'm sorry. It's too much and too soon. I must have gotten carried away."

"Are you taking it back?"

"No."

"Do you mean it?"

"I do. But I'm sorry if it has made you uncomfortable."

"I'm not really sure how to react," Liz says.

"Like I said," Samar replies. "I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize," Liz says. Her smile has faded and tears pool in her eyes.

"Shit, Liz. Please don't cry. I'm so sorry." Samar's tongue darts out to catch Liz's tear.

"Stop apologizing. I don't want to hear you apologize."

"Tell me what do do. What can I say? I'll do anything to make it better."

"Then say it again," Liz sighs and her eyes roll back in her head. Samar looks at her questioningly. "Yes," Liz says and nods.

"I love you," Samar says, and this time when each word comes out of her mouth there is a gravity of thought given to each syllable.

"I love you too."

Samar nuzzles Liz's nose with her own. "You don't have to say that, Elizabeth. You are under no obligation here."

"I know. And I would hope you know me well enough by now to know that I do not say or do things that I don't want to." Liz smiles, although there are still tears rolling down her cheeks. "I've never felt anything quite like this before. And I love it. I love the feeling. I love you."

"Liz," Samar begins. "There are things we have to figure out. Things we have to talk about."

"I know," Liz nods. "We're going to have to go to HR and fill out relationship disclosures. Do you think they'll still let me consult for the task force?"

"God, I hadn't even thought about that," Samar says in a strangled voice. Of course she hadn't thought about filling out disclosures at the Bureau because what she was actually thinking about was how they were going to flee, and whether or not Liz would even want that life with her. She feels her preternaturally cool and calm exterior start to crumble. She wants to slip back in time to five minutes ago when she was coming all around Liz's fingers.

"Well," Liz chirps, and her voice is enough to deepen the cracks spreading across Samar's shell. "We have time to figure all of that out. Maybe don't tell anyone yet at work. And speaking of which, you are going to be late. You should go hop in the shower and I'll maybe wash these sheets."

"Elizabeth," Samar starts again.

"Yes?"

"I. . . I love you, but I can't go to work. Not yet."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I haven't had breakfast yet," Samar fumbles. She can't burst this bubble. Liz loves her. Liz told her she loves her. She has to hold on to that for at least a little longer, and maybe with the miracle of that love will come an answer to their problems.

"What do you want for breakfast? I could run out and grab something for you while you are in the shower."

"You're not going anywhere," Samar says and pins Liz gently to the bed. "I don't want you to go anywhere and get me anything for breakfast. I want you." Samar kisses Liz's lips, and Liz's hips arch up against Samar.

"I like the sound of that," Liz whispers as the kiss ends.

Samar kisses down Liz's neck. Inch by inch, she kisses her way down Liz's chest and abdomen. Her tongue trails over her hip bones, and then down into the little crease of Liz's thigh. Samar parts Liz's legs and climbs in between them. She glances up to find Liz is watching her with a dazed smile. Samar returns the smile and then dips her lips to the lovely mound of her sex. Liz moans as Samar's mouth melts over her, as though she were taking an ice cream cone into her mouth. Samar swirls her tongue over Liz, parting her folds to find the sweet spot. For a long moment her mouth simply lingers there, her tongue pressing hotly against Liz, feeling Liz pulsate with desire beneath it. Then she starts to stroke Liz's thighs and as she does, she licks, in a slow but steady rhythm, at the bud that has hardened with excitement.

Liz arches her back and moves under Samar's tongue. Liz is silky as a custard in Samar's mouth, but she tastes simultaneously sweet and salty and somewhat tangy. The taste reminds Samar of the exotic plum paste used in Japanese restaurants, and it awakens and arouses every bud of her tongue. Samar finds herself wondering if they could find refuge in Japan. The mountains. They could go to the mountains.

As Samar thinks about the mountains in Japan, her lips stir Liz towards ecstasy. The delirious noises Liz makes yanks Samar back to the present moment and she guides two fingers into her lover to completely send her over the edge. Liz clutches at the sheets, and then at Samar's hair as she comes.

Samar climbs back up, and they hold one another as their breath slows.

"I'm thinking perhaps I will go in late and just work for a couple of hours," Samar says evenly.

"Really?"

"Yes. Really." They hold one another for a while longer, and to Samar's surprise, Liz dozes off. Samar slips out of bed and moves silently toward the shower, glancing back at Liz over her shoulder.

Today. They will do this today.


	28. Progress

_**A/N: Well, this chapter took a while to actually sit down and write, because real life and such. Thanks for being patient. And an extra special thanks for all of you who have been so generous and encouraging with your comments. I almost wasn't going to come back to this fic, but you've convinced me otherwise. Xoxoxox.**_

"So how are you doing, Ms. Keen?"

"I'm doing fine," Liz says. She settles herself into the overstuffed arm chair, her small pocketbook on her lap.

"You're smiling today."

"Yeah," Liz says. "I guess I am."

"Do you want to tell me why you are smiling?" The therapist asks this in his typical cat and mouse way. It has been six weeks of these sessions, twice a week, since. . . since everything. Sometimes she talks to him. Sometimes she tells him just enough to make him seem satisfied that she is making progress, or at the very least being honest. Once she even cried genuine tears. She had felt somewhat embarrassed afterwards that she'd broken in front of this professional stranger, but then she had comforted herself by telling herself that was what he wanted to see. What he had needed to see to believe she was making progress. Sometimes she's cooperative. Sometimes she plays into his cat and mouse a bit. Sometimes she just plays him.

She's not decided if he can be trusted. She's not decided if she trusts herself enough to trust him. She feels suddenly vulnerable and bare without Samar by her side.

"I suppose I will have to tell you, or else you will continue to prolong my return to the field." She says, trying to keep calm and appear light and unaffected by his probing.

"Does it feel like I am intentionally prolonging your return?"

"Look," Liz sighs. "The truth is, this is absurd. I'm not even an actual agent any more, so it is ridiculous that I am even having to come sit here with you and, what is it you say? ' Unpack my trauma?' I've done enough unpacking and moving and packing up again over the last year to last me a lifetime. Frankly I'm rather sick of it."

"You did agree to come to these sessions as a precursor to your return as a consultant to the Task Force. You're here of your own free will. Does it feel as though you are being forced to come here?"

"I agreed to come here out of respect for Harold Cooper, so that he could feel assured that I am doing okay," Liz says.

"Your colleagues care deeply about you," he says.

Liz thinks about her arms sliding around Samar's body in the shower. She thinks about Samar clinging to her as they kiss. She thinks about the night in the motel when Samar came to help her recover from her night terror. She thinks of Samar's worried face in the ladies' room of the museum when she saw Liz's piece tucked neatly into her pants.

"You have no idea," she whispers.

"Why don't you help me understand."

"Understand what, exactly?"

The therapist sits silently and still. He looks at Liz from behind his glasses.

Liz crosses and then uncrosses her legs. "I don't really know what you want me to say."

"Why don't you start with whatever it is that is making you happy this week. If in fact you are smiling because you are happy?"

"Well, isn't that why people usually smile?" Liz rather snorts the question at the man sitting before her in the loafers and cardigan. He looks like the quintessential shrink. She stifles a snicker as she wonders if the psychology program he attended had a class on what to wear to work when you are a shrink. "I'm smiling because I feel happy. Sure. Is that so wrong?"

"Of course it isn't wrong, Ms. Keen. It is a nice thing that after so much heartache you are feeling happy. I just wonder why. Why the sudden change of heart."

Liz considers this phrase, and then repeats it. "A change of heart," she says softly. She thinks of Samar. She thinks of how they held each other that morning, before Samar left for the Post Office. She thinks of how Samar kissed her, long and deep, how they had pressed their foreheads together for a moment before parting, almost as though they were attempting to sync their thoughts with one another. She thinks of how she whispered "Be safe and hurry home," against Samar's lips, how she felt quite certain she wanted to speak every word for the rest of her life against Samar's skin. She thinks of how Samar picked up her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, biting her ever so slightly, before she turned and walked out the door, only letting Liz's hand go when it was absolutely no longer possible to hold on to her. She thinks of the hours and days they have spent with one another over the past month, growing close, falling in love.

She thinks of all of this and gets tangled up in the delight and thrill of the thoughts. She has to shake her head to bring herself back to the office with the man before her who is sitting oh-so-expectantly, and waiting for her reply. He reminds Liz of a dog who is sitting and waiting to be rewarded with a treat.

She will not treat him for his patience. Not today.

In no way does she want to share any of her happy thoughts with the bespectacled man sitting before her.

She's not ready.

She's not ready to crack the shell of the little habitat of safety and adoration that has grown around her and Samar. And she is not ready to disclose anything to anyone to put what they have in jeopardy.

Disclosing her relationship with Samar would most certainly put her return to work in jeopardy, and it might also threaten Samar's assignment with the Task Force. Agents "fraternizing" with consultants would be more than frowned upon. Although she has been assured by the therapist that she has confidentiality within the confines of his office, she knows better. She knows how this works. She knows he would have to disclose his concerns to Cooper, and there most certainly would be concerns.

She was a psychologist and an FBI agent, once upon a time, after all.

Liz frowns.

"Well," she begins. "I've been doing the meditation routines that you recommended. I think they are really helping. And I've been exercising more, since I got the okay from my doctor. I think it's all just starting to help me find my inner peace." She shrugs and looks up at him to see if she has passed the test.

He doesn't miss a beat. "That's wonderful to hear you have been working on your recovery so faithfully. Do you feel more ready to talk about Tom or the baby?" He's staring at her, watching her squirm. And then as though he is actually trying to add insult to injury, he adds, "Or do you feel ready to talk about Reddington?"

"I don't really think those things are very important to talk about anymore," Liz says, her voice steady and bordering on fierce. "I feel like I've just kind of moved past them."

"I don't believe that to be true. I don't believe that you believe it to be true either. Until you actually talk about the deaths of your fiance and your baby, I don't think you will truly be able to put the past in its place. I think it will continue to come back and haunt you."

Liz feels the color drain from her face. She looks down at her hands. She weaves her fingers into the strap of her pocketbook and clenches it, then begs her hands to settle down so the therapist will not see her involuntary stress response.

She wishes Samar were there. She swallows hard. She looks out the window.

"I think we have talked enough about Tom. And the baby." She searches for her smile. She thinks of Samar tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear and is able to look back up at the therapist.

"How are the flashbacks?" The therapist asks.

"I haven't had any in a couple weeks," Liz answers, and this part is true. Since she has been with Samar she has felt grounded, tethered to something good and kind and honest.

"And the night terrors?"

"I haven't had any of those either."

"This is good," he smiles. "How about your rage towards Raymond Reddington?"

Liz swallows hard again and tries not to shudder as she answers, " I think that is mostly dissipated as well."

"Really?"

"Really."

"What do you think has changed so dramatically in the past couple weeks?"

"Well, like I said, I've been doing the meditation," she lies, thinking of Samar's tongue sliding into her folds, thinking of Samar's fingers stroking her breasts, thinking of Samar's hips rocking against her body.

"I find that hard to believe," he says. "Just a couple weeks ago you were so enraged with Reddington you were having homicidal ideation. Feelings like that don't simply fade into oblivion with a couple weeks of meditation practice."

Liz looks out the window again. If only Samar were here. If only Samar were here, she could say it all. She could spill her guts out all over the cheap, imitation Persian rug right here in this office. If only she could say it against Samar's skin, whisper the words so that she felt her breath bounce back, warm and real against her own mouth.

"How are you feeling now, Ms. Keen?"

Liz scans her brain, wondering what words she can use to placate this man.

"I don't know," she answers, and surprises herself with her own honesty.

"My questions have made you uncomfortable in some way. Scared you? Made you angry, perhaps? So you have made yourself numb to avoid the discomfort. You're a psychologist, Ms. Keen. You know what this is. You are blocking the emotions, dissociating because they are too threatening for you. But I'm here to assure you that you are safe. This is a safe space to reflect on all of the difficulty."

"And if I don't want to reflect? What about that? What about if I just want to let it go and move on with my life?"

"These things can not truly be let go until they have been dealt with. By ignoring them or trying to walk away from them, you simply stuff them back down, suppress them, repress them. You are a wise enough psychologist yourself to know that these are defense mechanisms that do not work well over time."

"Wise enough?" She spits the words back out at him. "I graduated at the top of my fucking class! I was better than good enough or wise enough."

"Was?"

"I still am. I am perfectly capable of going back in the field today. I had a promising career as a profiler, one that I would very much like to get back to. One that was very successful and rewarding, until. . ."

"Until what?"

"You know until what."

"I do. Still, I think it is important for you to say it."

"Until Reddington," she growls. "There. I said his name. Happy?"

"This isn't about my feelings, or about me being happy. It is about you doing the work you need to do to heal. How do you feel?"

Liz clenches at the strap of her pocketbook. She's past caring what the shrink thinks about how she's presenting herself or how she's progressing. "How do I feel? Well, I guess I feel like that son of a bitch ruined my life."

"So you're angry?"

"I don't know," she says. "I thought I was angry. Sometimes I'm angry. But other times I'm just bored of it all. I'm tired of feeling sad, angry, hopeless, lost. I just want to feel something else for a little while. I want to forget that Reddington ever came into my life and made it unlivable, unrecognizable. I don't want to feel so confused. I want to feel happy or peaceful for a little while. Why can't I ever just have a good day? Why is it so impossible that I should just feel a little happy for a little while without having a professional poke and prod at me until I'm in pain again?"

"You've been through a lot," he offers. "It's understandable you would feel confused."

"Is it?" Liz's lips hitch up into a sardonic smile. "Is it understandable?"

"Of course."

"You know, it's funny."

"What is?"

"You don't actually understand at all. You don't understand any of it. You don't have a clue."

"Help me understand, then."

"That's just it. You'll never understand. No one will. No one will ever understand because I don't understand. I don't even know who I am, for fucks sake!" Liz pauses and takes a breath, shakes her head, exhales. "I lived my whole life thinking I knew stuff. Basic, boring everyday stuff, like where I was born, or what nationality I was. I had a hard luck story, an adoring adoptive father, a solid education. I had a husband. I had a shot at a normal, boring, bureaucratic career. I was just like anyone else. And then, he came along."

"Reddington?"

"Raymond fucking Reddington. Waltzed right into my life and turned it upside down, gave it a good shake like it was little more than a souvenir snow globe. You know what his first words were to me? He told me I was special, that he was going to make me famous. And as if that weren't insane enough, the truly crazy part was that I actually believed him! I spent the better part of a year believing he had my best interests at heart, that he was protecting me."

"You were on the run with him for quite a while. He protected you. You must have grown close. Perhaps you even found yourself caring for him? Those feelings must be complicated and difficult to comprehend. Would you like to talk about how you felt towards him?"

"At a certain point, sure, I suppose a part of me cared for him. And I suppose there is still a part of me that feels grateful he got me out of town after I shot the Attorney General."

"He saved your life on several occasions."

"Yeah. He did. He was the one who carried me into the hospital when I was bleeding out because of the baby. Did you know that? Of course you didn't. No one did. But I knew. I'd gone there to kill him for killing Tom, and almost ended up dying myself. How's that for irony?"

"Do you still want to kill him?"

"No. I don't. But I don't really feel ready to forgive and forget either. Everyone was always so curious about him, about us. They all wondered what his obsession with me was about. You want to know too, don't you. I can see it in your face, as you sit there, biting your lip, trying to steer me into talking about it without appearing overly eager or obvious. Well, you can relax because I'm not going to tell you. I'm not going to tell you if he was in love with me, or if we fucked while we were on the run, or if Agnes was really his baby. I'm not going to tell you how we were connected, or how I really felt about him. None of it matters. You know what he was doing? He was grooming me. Conning me into believing all those silly, little stories he told me. It was all a trick. A fancy slight of hand. And for what? I never got any answers. He took my father from me. He murdered Tom. He hid the truth from me. And now I'll never know. I'll never know who I am, or what I'm doing here. He took that from me. He didn't just take my family and my career. He took my identity!"

Liz stops here to catch her breath. The therapist's eyes seem wider, and his posture is impeccably square. He starts to open his mouth, but Liz speaks before he can.

"You want to know how I feel about all of that, right?" She says softly. "That's what you want to ask me right now. You want me to get in touch with my anger, own it, process it, let it all out, right? I get it. I do. I'm sure if I were sitting where you were sitting I would be urging my patient to do the exact same thing. But the thing is, in reality, when you are sitting in my seat, right here, it doesn't work that way."

Liz stands up. "Honestly, I feel pretty good. I walked in here feeling happy. And I am going to leave here feeling happy. Look at that! I think I made some real progress here today. And now I am done. You can put your day planner away, Doc, because I will not be booking another appointment. I'm done." She slings her pocket book over her shoulder and strides toward the door. "You can write to Harold and tell him whatever you want. Make your recommendations, such as they are. He'll give me my job back or he won't. I personally think he will. Either way, I will not be coming back here to talk to you anymore."

"I wish you the best of luck, Ms. Keen."

"Thanks, but I don't really need your luck."

As Liz leaves the office, she takes out her phone to call Samar and her smile returns.


	29. Errands

_**A/N: I am so touched by all of the supportive, genuine, and lovely comments. I was not going to come back to this fic, but you guys have inspired me. Thank you so much! I'm really glad that you are enjoying this story. . . and that Lizvabi seems to be catching on!**_

Samar sits in her car, outside a nondescript, brick building, when she feels the buzzing of her phone in her pocket. It actually startles the woman who is most always preternaturally calm. A wave of dread passes over her, as it seems to do now when she feels the buzzing of a phone. The clock is ticking. The buzz of the phone is like an alarm, reminding her, she is just about out of time.

As she drags the phone out of her pocket, she sees the number and breathes a sigh of relief.

Liz.

"Hello?"

"Well hello there," Liz replies. "How's your day going?"

"Just fine," Samar says. Her heart races, but she smiles at the simple cheer in Liz's voice.

Samar is a woman who has interrogated terrorists. She is a woman who has injected chemicals of torture into a suspect's blood stream to get him to tell her what she wants to know. She has threatened to cut off fingers and extract teeth. She has hung grown men up, made them cry and beg beneath black hoods for mercy. And she's done it all with a steady hand, but as she holds her phone up to her ear, Samar finds her fingers are shaking.

"So," she says trying to summon a breath to fill her lungs and slow her heart. "What are you up to today?"

"Not too much. I had an appointment with the shrink. It was. . . oh, I'll tell you about it later." Liz laughs, then continues, "I have to stop at the PO box. The post office has been calling me and complaining because it's overflowing."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I've been avoiding it. Haven't checked in weeks. Nearly two months, actually. You know, I just didn't want to deal with all the condolence cards about the baby. But I'm finally feeling ready to take care of it."

"That's great," Samar says. Her voice is steady but she finds herself gasping for air. "I mean, that's truly amazing, Liz."

"I think so too. And Samar, a lot of it has to do with you, with how much you have helped me over the past weeks. I don't know if I would be able to do this without you."

"Oh, Liz, I. . ." Samar finds herself at a loss for words. She clears her throat. "Look, I've got to go out on a call with Ressler soon. But can we meet up later? Can I take you out for dinner?"

"Oh. A date? Absolutely. I'll be looking forward to it."

"Wonderful. Me too."

"Can we hold hands across the table?"

"Anything you want."

"Mmmm," Liz's voice is a purr in Samar's ear. "I like that thing you did this morning. I think, no, I know, that I want more of that."

"Well, the good news is that I could do that to you all night long," Samar says. "But maybe not in a restaurant."

"Fair enough," Liz laughs.

"Look. Liz. I have to go now. I'll talk to you soon."

"Ok. Be safe. Don't let Ressler get frisky with you," Liz croons. Samar can't help but laugh.

"Not a chance. I'm all yours." The shaking fingers of Samar's other hand find their way to her hair, twirl a lock.

"I like the sound of that. And I'm all yours too. Do you know that?"

"I do." Samar whispers the two syllables, finds herself strangely emotional, and blinks back tears. "I love you Elizabeth."

"I love you, Samar."

"I can't even tell you how good those words sound. I'll meet you at the apartment around six thirty? I want to take you out someplace special."

"Alright. I'll see you then." Liz says and the line goes dead.

Samar checks to see that her gun is fully loaded. Not her service weapon, but the other gun she keeps for other things. She opens the door of her car and steps out. She looks around her as she makes her way to the alleyway and walks down it. A man steps out to meet her halfway down the narrow passage.

"Vlad couldn't be bothered to meet me himself?" Samar asks. The man runs a finger across his stringy moustache.

"I'm afraid your reputation precedes you, Miss Navabi," he says.

"Your's, I am afraid, does not." Something about the way he says her last name reminds Samar of Reddington.

"That's okay. Part of my charm is my unassuming nature. Vlad was feeling a little skittish after Dubai and thought it would be best if I came out to meet you. My stomach isn't as sensitive as his is, when things get spicy."

"I have no intention of making things spicy," Samar hisses.

"This is good, then."

"You have what I want?" She asks the man. He offers up a manilla envelope.

"It's all here," he says. "But my employer says that due to the rush job, it's going to cost you double." His other hand goes to his hip, where Samar presumes he has his weapon.

"Not a problem," she says. "I had a feeling Vlad would try to pull something like this, so I came prepared." She extracts and extends a chubby envelope from inside her jacket. Normally she would not roll over quite so easily in this sort of situation, but she has no time for haggling with this guy, or his employer. They exchange envelopes. She opens hers and glances at the passports, birth certificates, and plane tickets that she and Liz will need for travel. "Looks good. Thank you."

The man is peeking into the envelope that Samar had passed him, is running the pad of his thumb over the stack of bills. "My pleasure," he says and disappears down the alley.

Samar walks back to her car. There are a few other things she will need to arrange so that she and Liz can depart in 36 hours. That is, if Liz will be willing to depart with her after Samar comes clean tonight.

….

Liz enters the post office, pushing back the heavy doors and taking a deep breath of the warm, gluey-smelling air that greets her. She walks into the back room with the PO boxes. She fishes her keys out of her pocket book, selects the small one from the ring, and approaches the box she shared with Tom.

The last time she had come to this post office had been when they were planning their wedding.

They had made a joke out of mailing their wedding invitations. They were only inviting a handful of people, so there were not many invitations going out. Tom had suggested that Liz just hand them out in person, but she had wanted everything to be proper etiquette. He'd laughed and shrugged and they drove to the post office, purchased a book of the stamps with hearts and flowers on them, and pretended to make a ceremony out of sliding them into the mail slot.

"I think you've been watching too many of those bridal reality shows," he had joked. "You're not going to turn into a Bridezilla on me, are you?"

"Me?" She had laughed and they kissed. "Well, I am pregnant and temperamental," she'd replied. "But I suppose as long as you keep me flush in ice cream, I'll be a happy bride."

"Rocky road it is then," he had cheered.

Rocky road, indeed. The irony escaped her then, but doesn't now.

Standing before the wall of mailboxes, she remembers this exchange with a shudder. She had been so enraged with Red for killing Tom that anger eclipsed any grief she felt at the time. And then she lost Agnes, and her grief for her baby overtook her entire life. There had been no space in which to grieve for Tom. As she inserts the key into the little lock of the box's little door, she wonders if she needs to grieve for Tom. The quack of a shrink would tell her that she does, but what does he know anyway?

She had dreaded coming to the post office, had dreaded the feelings she thought it would certainly bring up, and now, standing before the wall of mailboxes, she finds herself feeling very little.

Red had insisted that Tom was marrying her just to get an upper hand, that the price on her head was too much for Tom to resist. The surprising lack of grief for Tom has opened a space where Liz finds herself wondering if Red could have been right. Could she have been that blind?

But she hadn't been blind. She had seen the signs. She had seen the burner cell phones and furtive phone calls that Tom thought he was hiding from her. It was as though he thought being pregnant had also made her stupid. She had seen the stains on his clothes. She had seen the stacks of cash in the back of the closet. She had seen all the clues, and ignored them. Part of her had been desperate to create the perfect little family for Agnes, had longed to experience the three of them strolling and picnicking in the park, like she'd always fantasized . But another part of her had wanted to keep Tom close so she could keep an eye on him, figure out what he was doing.

It was all so complicated.

And now they are gone. Tom is dead. Agnes is dead. Red has fled to parts unknown.

And she has Samar.

She lifts her wrist to her face, inhales the spot where she applied some of Samar's perfume before leaving the house. The spicy scent brings her back to the present moment.

She turns the key and opens the box.

She is surprised to find that it is empty.

She walks over to the counter and summons the woman behind it. "Hey there. I'm here to pick up my mail, but the box is empty. Is it possible you're holding something for me back there?"

"Name?"

"Keen. Elizabeth Keen."

The woman walks into the back room and comes back with a white box that is emblazoned with the United States Post Office insignia on it. She puts it on the counter and shoves it in Liz's direction. "Return the box when you're done with it," she says.

"Uh. Ok. Thanks." Liz picks up the box and peers down into it. "Guess it's been a while, huh?" She laughs. There is an assortment of different colored envelopes that most certainly contain condolence cards. Magazines. Catalogues. Flyers for pizza shacks and Chinese food menus. Letters with little windows that look like bills or credit card offers.

And a small, padded envelope that is perched next to a thick stack of white, letter-sized envelopes which are neatly and evenly collected together, and encircled with an elastic band.


	30. Powerless

_**A/N: So, you know that if I wrote a Broadway show it would be called "Bring in the Angst, Bring in the Dark." So, be warned that things are going to get a bit. . . difficult for a few chapters. Stick with me! There is a plan! I'm so moved beyond words that you all have been so faithfully reading this thing. What started off as just a few short vignettes, has turned into a monster fic. Some of you have been wondering if there is an endgame, and how many chapters are left. So, I could either end it in a couple chapters, so I could go on and on. There are two distinct possibilities. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks so much for reading and commenting. Xoxoxo.**_

Dear Lizzie,

It won't be long now.

I'm hoping these letters have softened you ever so slightly, even just enough that you will be willing to hear my side of the story. Soon, we will be together again and I'll tell you everything. I'll tell you about our past; all of it. You and you alone will be the vessel into which I pour my every secret. I know this is long overdue. I'm so sorry. If this time apart from you has shown me anything, it is the error of not being entirely up front with you from the very beginning. There are things you need to know. It has been unfair for me to keep those things from you in misguided attempts to protect you, to shield you from the darkness that was your birthright from the very moment your heart flickered within your mother's womb.

I've roamed the earth these last weeks, searching for ways to keep you safe, forming alliances, creating safe holds, stockpiling supplies. I bought a factory's worth of canned lychee, remembering how much you adored that lychee martini you had at that one restaurant when we were on the run. Where was that? The name of the city or town escapes me now. Perhaps you will be able to remind me. Perhaps you will think this stockpile of canned, tropical fruit to be frivolous, or silly. But I want everything to be perfect. I want you to be comfortable, and someday, hopefully soon, for you to be happy.

Lizzie, my warrior queen. Once we are together again, I will be but your humble servant. This is the vow I make with every moment my lungs fill with air. So long as I breathe, I am yours. I serve none other.

Being without you has been difficult. In the night, when I wake, I reach for you, and am devastated when I find you are not there. While I miss your physical presence, I also fear for your safety, while you are so far from me. Working to secure your life has been the only thing that has kept me from crumbling to dust.

Lonely though night has been, it also brings you to me. You are my dreams. I can feel you there in my sleep, even when I wake and cannot remember exactly of what it was I dreamed. I long for those dreams of you, for the silken moments in which I feel your flesh beneath my own, when time and space slip away, and we are one at last.

During our time together, I had begun to believe I'd become less hideous, less of the monster that I certainly was once. Lizzie, you know me. You see me. I am not a good man. I have done horrible things, taken lives, stolen moments from people who may have been innocent. It is of course too much to recount in this paper missive to you, but I know you will not doubt how awful I was. Perhaps it is not a good excuse to say I did it all for you, for us. Perhaps it is unfair to you to claim that the end of your safety justified the means by which I kept you safe.

No, of course not, my just, fair, noble Elizabeth. You would never accept such an excuse. And I would be better still for your scrutiny.

Yet I thought it was so. I believed you could make me a better man, and so you did. I hadn't even realized how hungry I was for redemption, how desperately I thirsted for it. I thought I could quell this hunger, slake this thirst by attempting to eat your sin, and yet it only made me more hungry, more urgently in need of purification.

A kiss was all it took.

My sweet, darling girl, how you gave it to me, how you gave it all up for me to devour. Were you even aware of what you were doing to me?

The night on the ship, when we kissed under the stars, it was as though I was a man reborn. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I was like a character from a fairy tale, spellbound in sleep, and the entrance into the hot, wet cavern of your sweet mouth woke me from the death of a hundred years.

I relive our kiss, sometimes in torture, sometimes in ecstasy. Sometimes I wonder if it actually happened, if you actually gasped my name as we parted that night on the sea. You could not know, as I would not let you know then, how my legs shook, like a lovelorn schoolboy. But I confess now; I was frightened at how deeply I loved you and how powerless it made me.

Not a day passes that I don't wonder what could have happened if we had kept sailing, if we had not returned. I damn my hubris for convincing us to return, to clear your name, and wonder what could have been had I instead convinced you to continue with me.

Different versions of our story tell themselves in my head on different days. In one version of the story, I take you back into the shipping container and make love to you. Then, when you find yourself with child, you convince yourself that the baby is mine. It takes very little effort for you to come to believe she is my child, because you come to love me. We retire to an island in the South Pacific where I teach our daughter to snorkel and fish, where you grow golden in the sun, where you allow me to enchant you with all of the decadence I can lavish.

In another version of the story, I book us passage to Italy and buy you a little villa by the sea. There we grow grapes and learn to make our own wine. One night, drunk from the fruits of our toils, we fall into bed and into one another. I propose. You accept. We buy some goats and make cheese from their milk which we sell at a local market. In this manner we live out our lives in innocent obscurity.

The fantasies are endless. I know you'll think they are foolish, and perhaps they are. In many ways, you are far more pragmatic than I am, and you always have been. My passion has made a blind and lovestruck fool of me, and yet, I know none of it is impossible.

All you need to do is tell me what it is your heart desires, and I will make it so.

Samar will be bringing you to me soon. She has kept you safe, and for this I am eternally indebted to her. . .

….

Liz stops reading.

There is more written, another page of it, in fact, but she stops reading.

The sheet of paper falls from her hands and floats to the floor. It lands against another sheet, but how could it not? The floor is covered in white, and the white covered with the neat, spindly script of Raymond Reddington.

She stands then sits back down. It can't be possible. Her mind is surely playing tricks on her.

She bends and picks the paper back up. "Samar will be bringing you to me soon. . ."

She reads the line over and over.

Her mouth is suddenly and completely dry. She fights to make basic instincts happen, things like breathing, swallowing. Blood rushes in her ears like a thundering tide. She paces the apartment. She runs into her room and starts to toss her things into a bag. She's going to run. She's going to hide. She's going to get the fuck out of here.

The dress she had put on for her date with Samar is tight. She claws at it, panicking because she cannot breathe.

Her gun.

It is a clear and easy thought.

She goes to the bedside table and opens the drawer. Her gun is there. She takes it out and holds it. The weight of it in her hand calms her. Her breath slows. She sits down on the bed. "What have you done, Samar," she whispers. A wave of rage crests and turns into panicked despair. "Fuck," she says and then it becomes a chant. "Fuckfuckfuckfuck." The smell of her lover in the covers of her bed waft up and have an oddly comforting effect. She starts to think that Samar will be home soon, and it will be okay as long as Samar comes home soon.

Then she remembers the letters. Reddington and Samar. He'd mentioned her on more than one occasion, but that last line. It indicates that Samar is in on this scheme of his in ways Liz cannot even force her brain to understand or accept.

For a moment she thinks she might vomit. She squeezes her eyes shut and presses the butt of the gun down against her thigh. The nausea passes.

She gathers herself. Considers her options. At this point, there are surprisingly few options left to her. She can run and hide, but she has little cash and even less connections. She can throw herself at Harold's mercy, but that would place him in danger. She can stay and try to get answers out of Samar which might better inform her escape. Her mind spins, trying to make sense of what she will have to do, wondering if she will have the stomach to extract answers from Samar by any means.

She chokes on a sob that rises in her throat, and then she does run into the bathroom and vomit. She's not eaten much and she dry heaves into the toilet until her gut aches and she is scared she will turn herself inside out from the violence of her retching. When she finishes, she sits on the edge of the tub. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and realizes that she still holds her gun in one hand and the letter from Reddington in the other.

And it is while she is perched on the edge of the tub, gun in hand, she hears a key turn in the lock as the door to the apartment opens.


	31. Hopeless, Part Two

_**A/N: Here we go. . . PS. Follow me on Twitter ScarletteStar1**_

Samar steps into the apartment. The small living room is a sea of paper. She smiles as she considers how she will have to get used to Liz's slightly different and less organized domestic habits. A small compromise.

"Liz?" She calls out. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late. I got held up filing evidence. You know how that goes. Liz? Are you home?" Samar hears the toilet flush, and then Liz steps out from the bathroom. She is wearing a burgundy dress that hugs her thin frame. It is cut on the bias and one of her shoulders is exposed, luminous in the dim light of the apartment. Samar gasps. "Wow," she exhales. "You look unbelievable."

"Unbelievable?"

"Quite."

"This is an interesting word. 'Unbelievable'. It's something that I've been feeling as well. This state of disbelief."

"Is everything okay?" Samar asks. She looks around for a spot to put her jacket and handbag, but every surface is covered with paper. Letters. Cards. Envelopes torn open. Finally she drapes her stuff over the arm of a chair, making some papers rustle softly and then fall to the floor. Samar bends to pick it up, and looks down at it, then back up at Liz. "What is all this?" She takes a step closer to Liz, and as she scans her up and down, she notices for the first time that Liz is holding her gun. Samar looks back up at her face. Liz looks like she has been crying. "What's with the gun, Liz? Did someone try to hurt you? Are you okay?"

"Oh. I'm fine. Just fine." Liz takes a step closer. "Actually, that is a lie. I'm not fine. Not by a long shot. But what's a little lie among friends? Or actually, I should say, among lovers, shouldn't I?" For a moment, Samar is distracted by the glint of a gold chain that encircles Liz's neck. In the very next moment, it dawns on Samar in a sickening flash that Liz is pointing the gun at her. She gestures at Samar with the hand that holds the gun. "Put your gun on the floor and kick it over to me." Samar complies with this request. Liz picks up Samar's service weapon and places it on the bookshelf behind her. "Why don't you sit down, Samar. I think we need to have a little chat." Samar picks up a pile of papers to clear a spot in which to sit on the couch. She looks up at Liz, waits patiently for her to explain what is going on.

Liz looks away, takes a breath, and looks back as she exhales. "You know, after Reddington killed Tom, he tried to tell me that he did it to protect me. He tried to convince me that there was a price on my head, that a number of gangs and organizations wanted me and that Tom simply wanted to sell me to the highest bidder. I figured he was lying to me. By that point I'd made it my default assumption that everything that man said or did was untrue, malicious, twisted. I never figured out that he, Reddington himself, was the highest bidder. That he was attempting to acquire me. In a way, it makes sense. His creepy and narcissistic obsession and attachment to me would lead him to believe that I could belong to him, like a bird in a cage. But I never- not in a million years- would have seen it coming that his partner in crime was you, Samar."

"That's not how it is, Liz. You've got to let me explain. But please. Could we put away the gun? You don't need it. I'm not going to hurt you. Just hear my side of the story and then you can do what you will."

"You know, it's funny! He said exactly the same thing, somewhere in all these letters." She opens her arms wide to indicate the papers that all but cover the furniture and floor of the apartment. "That's right. He's been writing to me. All these weeks. There must be dozens of letters here; I haven't even read all of them. Love letters, most of them, or at least what he perceives to be love in his perverted and sick way. He begs me to hear his side, and then tells me I can decide what I will and he will respect it. I think we both know that's not true, don't we, Samar?"

Samar keeps her body and head still, but allows her eyes to wander the room. Her mind scrambles. She pieces together what must have happened. The PO Box. Her eyes return to Liz, scan up to her face from the gun that is pointed at Samar. She sees Liz's hand tremble slightly.

"Liz," she starts. "You have to believe that I had- that I have- no interest in selling you to Reddington. That is not what this is. He asked me to look after you, to keep you safe when he went away. I did it gladly because you were my friend, because I care for you. I've always cared for you, Liz."

"Stop!" Liz shouts. Samar stiffens in the couch. "Enough with the lies! I have heard enough fucking lies to last me through three lifetimes!" She moves suddenly and sweeps a pile of things off of the coffee table. A ceramic trinket Samar had kept from Iran goes flying across the floor and smashes against the kitchen island which is adjacent to the living room. Samar tracks the little bits of glass as they splinter across the floor. She looks back up at Liz.

"I'm not lying to you," she whispers. "I would never lie to you. Liz. Please. Put down the gun." Much to Samar's surprise, Liz puts the gun on the counter of the island in the kitchen and comes back to stand before her, arms crossed over her chest, but she's still in reaching distance of the gun. Every nerve in Samar's body is poised to leap up and take Liz in her arms, hold her against her and comfort her. But she stays perfectly still on the couch. Liz seems to be waiting for her to speak, so Samar says, "I was coming here tonight to talk to you. To tell you everything. I've wanted to tell you for weeks. Even before we. . . became intimate."

"Became intimate?" Liz snaps. "Is that what you call that? I fell in love with you Samar!"

"And I with you, Elizabeth."

"Was this part of the deal? Was this part of Reddington's grand mind fuck of a scheme? Did he tell you that if you did what he said that you could also fuck me, on the house? It's like Tom all over again! I guess I should know by now that it is completely hopeless that anyone could ever just love me without that fucking psycho pulling the strings. Reddington just loves to pimp me out all over town. Although I must admit that the girl-on-girl action was a surprising twist this time. How much of a fool could I be? What's he paying you anyway, Samar? I mean, really, at this rate, I think I should really get a cut of the action for being Reddington's bottom bitch and all."

"Don't be vulgar, Liz." Samar begins slowly, firmly. "I understand that you are angry, and I can't say as I blame you, but please, I beg of you, don't reduce what we have to something out of Reddington's play book. It isn't." Samar's voice is soft, evenly paced, almost hypnotic. As she speaks, she watches Liz catch her breath. Surely she will hear the sincerity in Samar's voice. Surely she will see the torture cast upon Samar's face. "I didn't plan to fall in love with you," she continues. "I didn't plan it, and yet, I can't ever remember not loving you. It's like you are a very part of me. Like we are parts of each other. Whatever happens now, please don't be reductionist about what we share. My love for you is nothing if not genuine, and incredibly deep."

Liz leans back against the countertop of the island. Her elbows sink into her sides and she bends slightly at the hips, almost as though she will fold herself in two. But she straightens and buries her face in her hands. She looks frail, still so thin, in the dress. Her collar bone is prominent as she sucks air into her lungs. Samar longs to go to her, collect her tiny bones against her own body and yet, she holds back, quite sure that beneath this elegant vulnerability there is a warrior, waiting to attack.

"Liz, please try to understand. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you everything, but I was so scared. We got so close, so fast, and there was never a good time. I promise you that I came here tonight prepared to tell you everything. I was coming here to ask you to come away with me. Away from here, from Reddington. I wanted to ask you to start over someplace else."

"How can I believe you?"

"Go look in the pocket of my coat. There are papers. Tickets. Passports. New identities. Look for yourself."

Liz picks up the gun and makes her way across the room to where Samar's coat is draped over a chair. She keeps the gun pointed at Samar as she rifles through the pockets to find the envelope. She opens it and looks through the documents.

"Where did you get these?" Liz demands.

"From an old associate who owed me."

"How do I know these aren't from Reddington?" Liz asks. "How do I know this isn't part of his plan?" She walks back to the counter with the envelope, tosses it down and then looks back at Samar. "How can I ever believe you again?"

"Because I love you. You know me. I wouldn't hurt you. I've been wracking my brain for days, weeks really, trying to figure out a way around this." Samar starts to stand and Liz lifts the gun at her.

"Stay right there!" She commands. "Don't come one step closer to me."

"Okay. Okay." Samar settles back into the couch. "You must have questions. What else can I answer for you?"

For a long moment they stare silently at one another, and then Liz hisses, "How could you?"

"I just wanted you to be safe. We all did. We were all so worried about you."

"So, everyone knew? Was everyone in on this?"

"No. Liz, of course not. Reddington confided in me. Initially he just wanted me to keep an eye on you. Over time, it seems, he has gotten it into his head that he wants you close to him. He wanted me to bring you to him. I told him I would not do it and he threatened to have you abducted. So, I agreed with him just to buy some time to figure this out."

"And Tom? Is he telling the truth about Tom wanting to sell me off?"

"It seems so." Samar allows Liz to absorb this information, but it is a bitter pill and Liz clutches her stomach, as though in pain.

"So, I'm back to square one," she says.

"What do you mean?"

"Back to being completely clueless, not knowing who I am, not knowing what the fucking truth is, about me, about my life! Back to being a pawn in Reddington's disgusting game."

"No, Liz, no. Look at me. You know the truth. You. Me. We are the truth. I promise you that. You know what we have, and you know it is real." Samar starts to stand again, needing to go to Liz, to touch her, to reassure her, but as soon as she flexes her body to do so, Liz points the gun at her.

"I said don't move! Sit the fuck down, Samar!" Liz commands and Samar complies. But as soon as Samar is seated, Liz crumples in half and starts to sob.

"Please," she pleads. "Please let me come to you, Liz."

Liz straightens. She wipes her face with the wrist of the hand that is holding the gun, and Samar flinches as she sees how close the barrel is to Liz's head. "No," she whispers. "I would rather die than be sold off like an animal to Reddington, or to anyone." She turns the gun so that it is pointed at her temple.

The room is quite cool, but Samar's entire body is instantly awash in sweat. She feels beads prickle over her top lip and on her forehead. She's always hated the sensation of sweat, but now, she is too paralyzed by fear to wipe it away. "Elizabeth." The name comes in a deep voice from her throat. "Don't do this. I beg you. I've only just found you. I"ve only just felt love again for the first time in years. Please don't take that away from me. Please don't take yourself away from me."

"Shut up!" Liz shouts. She grinds the gun against her face and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Fine," Samar sighs. "Then you are going to have to kill me too, because I can't go through this again. And I certainly can't live in a world without you." Samar stands. Liz points the gun at Samar's chest, but Samar advances towards Liz anyway. She walks the three paces so that she stands before Liz. She walks right into the barrel of the gun. Liz's eyes raise so that she is looking into Samar's at last, and there is a jolt of recognition. "Go ahead. Do it."


	32. Settling

_**A/N: Ok. I couldn't leave you all hanging, so here is just a little morsel to tide you over and settle your nerves. Thank you for reading. I know I always say it, but I just can't thank you enough, I really can't… xoxoxo.**_

But Liz doesn't do it.

They stand frozen like that for what seems like a very long time.

Slowly, Samar brings her hand up to Liz's arm. She touches Liz's elbow, then strokes up her forearm to where her fist is curled around the gun. At Samar's touch, Liz's hand starts to shake. Samar steadies her hand and holds the gun so that it is squarely over her heart. She does not break eye contact with Liz for a second. "I'm here, Liz. I love you." She raises her other hand and cups Liz's face with it, wipes at the tears which stream down her face. "I'm ready. Go ahead. Do it then."

Samar gazes with a fearless affection into Liz's eyes.

"I. . ." Liz stutters. "I can't do it."

"No. You can't." Samar gently takes the gun from Liz and places it on the counter behind her. It is a quiet, almost anticlimactic end to their standoff. Liz collapses against her, and Samar envelopes her in a fierce embrace.

"I feel like I'm going insane!" Liz cries.

"You aren't. You're okay. I'm here. I've got you."

They cling to one another until they are both shaking so hard from tears and adrenaline coursing through them. Samar leads Liz over to the couch. Liz holds her head and rocks against the cushions. "My mind. . . I must be losing my mind," she gasps.

"You aren't. Look at me. You're okay. Breathe." Samar takes a deep breath, hoping to prompt Liz to do the same. Air fills her lungs and starts to settle her muscles, heart, and head, but Liz is still panting. "Breathe," Samar commands again. "You're right here with me. You're okay. We are going to get through this together."

Liz looks up at Samar. Her eyes are almost magically blue against their red rims. Her face is swollen. Samar takes Liz's face firmly in her hands and together they slow their breath.

"The thing is," Liz says at last. "Are we really together?"

"What are you talking about? Of course we are."

"I don't know," Liz says and shivers. She suddenly starts shaking uncontrollably. Samar grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around Liz.

"You're coming down from all the adrenaline," Samar says. "The shaking is your body's way of trying to reset itself after a difficult event. Your body will settle itself over the next couple hours."

"I know that," Liz snaps and glares at Samar. "Contrary to what you and your buddy Reddington think, I am actually a competent field agent who can look after herself. I'm also a psychologist who knows all about the body's responses to such an 'event'."

"Of course you do," Samar says and sits back, allowing Liz her space. "I'm only trying to help."

"I think you have done enough helping." Liz says. "Just because I didn't shoot you doesn't mean I forgave you. And I certainly have not forgotten. I don't think I ever will."

"I understand," Samar says, then buries her face in her hands. She rubs her eyes, suddenly exhausted. She is still in shock herself. It is as though an explosion has torn the small apartment to shreds and the two of them are sitting in the wreckage with dust and chunks of trauma settling around them. Samar is too numb and shaken to cry, although she suspects that there are tears that will catch her eventually. "What can I do, Liz? How can I make this right?"

"I don't know if you can."

They sit in silence for some time. Samar takes the risk to reach for Liz hand. For a moment they squeeze each other's fingers, and then Liz snatches her hand away and returns it to her lap.


	33. Present

_**A/N: Ugh. Feelings are the worst. Thank you all for commenting. You make life so sweet! xoxo.**_

Liz curls onto her side. She pulls the blanket tightly around her, although the shivering has subsided somewhat.

"Can I get you something? A drink?" Samar asks.

"Sure," Liz says. "Something strong."

Samar gets up, walks to the kitchen and opens the cupboard over the fridge. "Scotch?"

"Are you fucking serious?" Liz snaps.

"Right. Sorry. I think I have some vodka in the freezer." She pours a couple glasses and then brings one to Liz. Liz sits up just enough to down the shot, then she curls back in the corner of the sofa, under the monumental weight of all she has just discovered. Samar resumes her place on the couch next to Liz. She sets the bottle of vodka on the coffee table after refilling their glasses one more time.

"I don't know what is worse," Liz mumbles against a pillow. "That you were lying to me, or that Reddington was telling the truth."

"I didn't mean to lie to you. It is never what I wanted or intended, and I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if I have to." Samar pauses and sips at her vodka. "That is, if you'll allow me to."

"Yeah. He said that too, in one of these letters."

"God, Liz, I-" Samar starts, but Liz sits up suddenly, almost knocking the glass out of Samar's hand when she grabs her forearm. Samar is so relieved to feel Liz's hand against her skin that she ignores for a moment that Liz is squeezing her so hard it almost hurts.

"Cameras?" Liz whispers, her eyes wild with fear.

"What?"

"We need to sweep this place for surveillance. He had me and Tom watched for months. He saw everything." She jumps off the couch, goes to the nearest lamp and feels around the shade, turns it over. "Do you understand, Samar? He saw everything we did for months. Everything!"

"I've already checked. I've been checking several times a day for the past few weeks." Samar says this to set Liz at ease, but it seems to have the opposite effect. Liz storms over to the bottle of vodka, sloshes more into her glass and tosses it back. "Please be careful, Liz. You'll regret it if you wake up with a headache tomorrow."

Liz slams the glass onto the coffee table. "How is this my life now?" She shouts. She starts picking up papers, the letters, from the floor and furniture. Samar watches her, despair welling behind her eyes.

"Our life," she says finally. "It's our life now."

"Isn't that the truth," Liz says. Her tone is bitter and she shakes her head. "Does he know?"

"Does he know what?"

"About. . . us? About what. . . we did?"

"No, Liz. No. He knows you moved in with me, but that is about it."

"He knows I'm living here," Liz says, more to herself than to Samar. "I've only been here a few days. When did you last talk to him?"

"He called the other morning. You were in the shower."

"The other morning? Do you mean the morning that we-" Liz stutters for the words, pacing back and forth at the kitchen island. Samar watches her proximity to the weapon that is still lying there.

"The morning we first made love. Yes."

"Wow," Liz utters in a shaking gasp. She slaps her thighs and then her hands fly back up into the air. "How does he do it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's like I'm not allowed to have a moment of pure happiness for myself. He has to taint everything with his presence. He's infiltrated my entire fucking life!"

Samar lowers her head. She takes a deep breath to still the urge to cry and scream and rage. But she breathes, so instead what comes out from her lips is, "Please, Liz. Please come with me to Japan. We can pack and be airborne in a day. Please come with me. I need you to say you will come with me," she chokes on these last words. She can't remember the last time she really, truly wept, but she is on the brink of doing just that, right now.

Liz says nothing. She scowls in Samar's general direction and starts sweeping paper up from the floor and furniture. Occasionally, she pauses to look down at one of the white sheets, then she stops and regards a page for a bit longer. "Samar," she starts slowly.

"Yes," Samar responds, swiping at the tears streaming down her face.

"In these letters, he mentioned a package, or an item that you were supposed to give me. Do you know what he's talking about?"

"I do. It's in my safe. Would you like me to get it?"

Liz gives her a curt nod. Samar walks into her bedroom. She presses her thumb into the safe, opens it, and takes out the small cube. She closes the safe again and brings the unassuming little object back out to the living room. She hands it to Liz.

"This is it?" Liz asks as she turns the cube over in her hands. "Oh. My. God."

"He said you would know what to do with it. He didn't give me any other instructions other than to give it to you." Samar watches a look of curiosity pass over Liz's abnormally pale features. "Do you know what it is?"

Liz snorts. "Oh, I know what it is." She twists the cube in her hand, shakes it, examines it from every angle. Then she presses on its sides in a series of different places. The cube falls open in her hand as though it is made of paper, revealing a thumb drive, a tiny scroll of paper, and a tiny, black velvet pouch.

"How did you do that?" Samar gasps.

"It's a puzzle box. It's an archaic design. There are many different kinds. I have about 16 of them. And there hasn't been one I haven't been able to figure out and open."

"Wow," Samar says.

"Yeah. Wow is right. Sam adopted me when I was four. And I used to get one of these on my birthday every year until I was twenty. They would have different gifts in them, usually jewelry of some sort. Rings. Lockets. Sometimes there would be exorbitant amounts of cash. Sam told me they were from my Godfather, who I'd never met."

"Do you mean?"

"Yes. Apparently, Raymond Reddington was my Godfather."

"Oh. Liz."

"Fancy that." Liz sets the box and its contents on the coffee table and pours herself another shot, but she sets the glass down to pick up the tiny velvet pouch. She opens the strings and spills the contents out into her hands. Diamonds. Sapphires. A couple rubies. She laughs bitterly. "The man who says he loves me has been in my life all along, since I was a child. My fucking Godfather." Liz tosses back the shot and shakes her head. "Doesn't get much creepier than that, does it?"

"I suppose not," Samar says. "What do you suppose is on the thumb drive?"

"Who the hell knows? Bring me your laptop, would you?"

Samar obliges by bringing the laptop to Liz. She sticks the drive into the port. A series of windows open. Numbers. Addresses. Titles and deeds to properties. Bank accounts. And a photo of her and Red sitting together on a park bench, holding hands, that looks like it was taken by someone surveilling them well over a year ago.

Liz feels the vodka threaten her throat, but she swallows hard. Her mind races, but when she speaks to Samar, her voice is calm. "I am going to go and pack my things," she says. "And then I am going to leave. I think you'll understand if I don't tell you where I'm headed.

"Liz," Samar pleads. She approaches her with her arms outstretched. Liz pushes her away. "I love you, Elizabeth. Please. Please don't do this. At least stay until tomorrow morning and think about it. Let me help you figure it out in the morning."

"Oh, I think you've done enough helping, Samar." Liz wipes at a tear that has escaped her eye and is sliding like ice down her cheek. "You've done quite enough," she whispers.

"Liz. Liz!" Samar puts her hands together in supplication and steps in front of Liz. Her shoulders shake with crying. "No. You can't go. You can't leave me. Liz, please!"

"What are you going to do, stop me? Are you going to put a hood over my head and kidnap me like he would? I'm no one's little bird in a cage. And I will not stay! Now, please get out of my way so I can go and pack." Samar moves slightly to the side so Liz can pass by her. She walks to her room, and quietly closes the door.


	34. Replacing

"Fuck," Liz whispers as she paces the confines of her room. She tosses the puzzle box on her bed and looks around her. Her suitcase is out where she'd hastily left it before Samar came home. It looks huge. The idea of stuffing it full with her possessions and trying to escape with such a heavy load daunts her. "Fuck," she says again as she realizes this is going to be more of a jeans and backpack sort of getaway.

She remembers the go bags she and Red had during their time on the run. She thinks of the useful items they would pack. Her head is clouded with vodka and despair as she tries to make a mental list of what she will need here and now.

Bandaids.

All she can think of are bandaids.

She figures she will need a shit ton more stuff than just bandaids, but can't remember what all that stuff is.

She goes to her closet and shuffles things around until she finds a medium sized backpack. As she tosses it onto her bed and starts to take the clothes out of the suitcase, she catches her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. She's still wearing the dress. She's still wearing the dress she'd put on for her date with Samar.

She sits on the edge of the bed, head in hands, and sobs, but her sorrow quickly turns to rage and she strips off the dress. The dress lands in a heap on the floor.

She tears open the drawers of her dresser, drawers into which she had only recently settled her clothing. She finds a tee shirt and pulls it over her bra. Then she scoops out some underwear and socks and tosses them into the backpack. "Fuck!" She snaps as she tries to remember what else they had put in those damn go bags. She rolls up a pair of jeans and stuffs them into the pack. She grabs a hoodie from the closet, starts to put it into the pack, but then decides she will wear it, so she lays it neatly next to the backpack.

She needs a plan.

She's drunk.

She's suddenly dizzy and nauseous.

She can't think straight.

She sits back down on the bed and wills her head to stop spinning. It does not cooperate.

She hears Samar's footfalls in the hallway outside her door. There is a soft, almost inaudible knock, followed by Samar's soft, almost inaudible voice. "Liz. I know you don't want to talk to me. But please try to understand. It was an impossible situation. I love you. I don't want you to leave, but I will respect your choice if you do. I won't follow you. And I'll never tell him. I promise you that. No matter what. I'll never tell him. I left your gun on the counter. Please take it, and be safe. I'm going to bed now. Goodnight. Or goodbye. I hope someday you'll be able to believe I do love you."

Liz can tell Samar stands for a few beats outside the door after this little speech. Liz imagines Samar on the other side of the door, touching the door with a tentative hand. And then she hears her walk the few steps down the hall to her own room, hears the click of the door as it closes.

A sob rises in Liz's throat. She chokes it back. She's drunk and dizzy and now she's blinded with tears. She picks up the puzzle box and opens it without looking at it. She lines up the articles in a row on the comforter. She spills the jewels into her palm and finds herself mesmerized by the sparkles. First things first. She will liquidate these to get a little travelling cash.

Then what?

Maybe she could use one of the properties listed on the drive as a safe house for a while.

No. He'd find her too easily.

Yes. He'd find her too easily.

And she could be there. Ready. She could set a trap for him and catch him in it. Revenge would be set before her for the taking.

"When did this become my life," she whispers sadly into her empty room. In her mind, she hears Samar answer, _Our life. It is our life now._

Could she have meant it? Liz can hardly bear to ask the question, because she knows instantly that Samar meant it. She had meant every, single word. It dawns on Liz that Samar was right. Their love is truth. But knowing this doesn't seem to make any of it any easier.

Part of her is tempted to throw the gems across the room. She imagines it would be satisfying to see them scatter, and hear the little clatter they would make hitting the walls and floor. But she sighs and puts them back into the velvet pouch, ties it and tosses it into the smaller pocket on the front of her backpack.

Liz lays on her bed. She kicks the backpack off and stretches out her legs which are still bare. _Get up,_ she tries to command herself. _Get up and put on some fucking pants and get the fuck out of here._

Vodka sloshes around in her gut like an angry fish, but the room has stopped spinning. What else had she and Red kept in those bags? She can't remember. Everything is so confusing. Her brain is working harder than it ever has to make sense of all of this, but nothing seems to connect in a coherent way, except the words _Our life. It is our life now_.

She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, stands shakily, and walks to the door. She strides out to the kitchen and grabs her gun off of the counter. Guns. They definitely had guns and ammunition in those packs. She turns and starts to walk back to her room, but she passes by her door and goes instead to Samar's room, wondering when and how it was she decided to do this. There is no light under the door, so Liz assumes Samar is in bed. She raps lightly, but decisively on the door and opens it before Samar can say, "Yeah?"

Liz walks into the room, and it is in fact dark, but Samar can see from the light of the hallway that Liz is holding the gun. She sits up stiffly in bed, wipes her face with the back of her hand, and heaves a broken sigh. Liz thinks she looks like a child, sitting there with her tear stained face and shaking shoulders. It is an oddly humbling and confusing sight to see this steely woman made weak and raw with emotion. And as Liz stands there, studying Samar's countenance, she sees fear pinch the corner of her lips and in between her eyes. She realizes Samar is looking at the gun in her hand.

"Will you put this in your safe?" Liz asks Samar.

Samar's shoulders visibly relax with relief as she realizes Liz has not come to kill her in her bed. "No, Liz. You should keep it with you. You might need it."

"Put it in your safe, Samar." Liz commands.

"All right," Samar sighs and gets out of bed. She crouches next to her bed and opens her little safe. Liz hands her the gun, and Samar tucks it in, then closes the safe. "It requires my thumbprint to open. If you want it back, all you have to do is ask."

"Get back in bed now." Liz's voice is low and Samar is too devastated to do anything other than comply with her, as though she is still at gunpoint. Samar curls on her side in the dark and closes her eyes. She hears Liz walk to the door and close it so it is once again very dark in her room. She figures Liz is on the other side of the door, so it is entirely surprising when Samar hears Liz's footsteps as she pads over the carpet to Samar's bed. Samar starts to roll onto her back, but Liz whispers, "Don't move." So Samar resumes her position, curled on her side, eyes closed, facing out.

Liz climbs into the bed behind her. She tucks her body into Samar's, wraps her arm over Samar's waist, wondering when and how it was she decided to do this. She burrows her face into Samar's back and inhales her spicy skin. She then finds a fleshy part of Samar's shoulder and bites down on it as hard as she can, and until she tastes the metallic tang of Samar's blood. Samar's whimper of pain becomes a groan of relief and desire as Liz relaxes her jaw and licks over the wounded flesh.

"Elizabeth," Samar chokes. "I'm so sorry."

"Shut up," Liz mumbles. She licks her lips, tasting the intimacy of Samar's flesh and blood as it lingers on her tongue, and wanting more.

"Liz, I-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Liz strokes up Samar's torso to her breast. She grabs it roughly in her hand and pinches the nipple. Samar gasps. She turns her head back and Liz catches her lips with her own. They kiss deep and hard, teeth clashing together. Liz bites Samar's lips, her tongue, her chin. Samar moans deeply, trying not to sob into Liz's mouth, but failing. They taste the salt of one another mixed with vodka and blood. Liz pulls Samar onto her back, and then climbs on top of her. They grind against each other, hot and hard. Liz smacks the fleshy part of Samar's hip with one hand as her other hand comes to Samar's neck and holds her down as she kisses her. "Fuck you, Samar," she cries. "Fuck you!"

"I know," Samar whispers against Liz neck. She slides one of her legs in between Liz's thighs and they establish a rhythm against one another. Liz moves her hands so they are pressing down against Samar's shoulders, giving her purchase to push up and arch her back into the motion. Samar's hands float from the small of Liz's back, up under her shirt and pull her back down into another kiss, as they ride one another.

"Fuck," Liz groans as the rhythm quickens. "Oh, fuck."

Samar jams her fingers into Liz's underpants and Liz follows suit, delving into Samar's folds. They are both sopping wet with arousal only despair can provide. Samar fits three fingers into Liz, and as though following her cue, Liz does the same to Samar. They ride one another and pant hoarsely, as though in a fierce race. Liz lowers her face to Samar's chest and bites at her breast over the thin, satiny material of her shirt. Samar sobs against Liz's shoulder, clutches at her with the arm that is not inside of her. She clenches her inner muscles around Liz's fingers inside her. Liz bites her neck, sucks her flesh. Liz starts to come first, and Samar follows her, as they both tighten and pulsate against one another's fingers. They each weep into the other's mouth, pressing hard and fast together as their climaxes peak, then slow and abate. They lie still for some time, quivering with each aftershock. When they finally dredge their fingers from each other, they emerge wrinkled, as though waterlogged.

Liz lies atop Samar, floating on her body in a sea that was stormy and is suddenly calm but for their breath. Samar caresses Liz's back and shoulders. She twirls a lock of Liz's hair around her index finger. Liz's face is nestled into her neck so that her ear is very close to Samar's mouth when she says, "I love you, Elizabeth."

Liz rolls off of Samar and onto her side, facing away. Samar curls into Liz's body and tucks her hand under Liz's arm. Their breathing slows, and it is very quiet. Samar is certain Liz has fallen asleep, so it surprises her when she hears Liz say, "I haven't forgiven you, Samar."

"Ok," Samar responds. "That's ok." She doesn't know if it is crying or laughter she is stifling. Maybe just a wave of relief so intense it is almost orgasmic in and of itself. Samar strokes the small of Liz's back in small circles.

"But I won't leave," Liz says sleepily. "This is our life now. Ours."

"Yes," Samar agrees. "It is."


	35. Cursed

"Red, you should come in here."

Baz's voice filters into Red's ear through the cell phone. He'd given Samar a week, but in the end he only wants to wait four days, and he comes to the apartment after five. It's close enough.

"On my way," he says and snaps the burner cell shut. Dembe opens his door and Red steps out of the car. He crosses the street to Samar's building and enters. He strides the hallway to her apartment and walks through the open door. He takes off his hat, strokes it in anticipation. His fingers slide gently along the brim.

"Where is she?" Baz and the two other men have holstered their weapons and are sifting through a pile of paper. The dilation of his pupils is imperceptible to anyone else, as he realizes that white pile is his missive to Elizabeth. Maybe Kate would have known. Yes, probably Kate would have seen the subtle twitch of his eye and cheek, but she isn't here. She is securing the safe house, making sure things will be comfortable for Lizzie.

Red snatches the pile of papers from the men. He folds it into a thick wad without looking at any of it, and stuffs it into the inside pocket of his overcoat.

Baz leads him down the hallway to a room. The door is open a crack, but Baz opens it wider so Red can step through. It is a neat, square of a room with straight, simple curtains hanging from the rods. The bed is made in a pretty comforter, adorned with puffy pillows that look new. He imagines Lizzie lying on it, eyes shut peacefully, fingers entwined over her chest like the Sleeping Beauty.

But she is not lying on the bed.

Where is she? Where the fuck is she?

The closet door is open and inside there are a series of bare hangers, clinging in a row to their rod. Further back in the closet there is a pile of sweaters on a shelf, and a garment bag hanging, zippered shut. He unzips the bag, as though he could catch her in a little game of hide and seek. He remembers the time he found her hiding in the closet, a tiny child clutching a stuffed rabbit. Maybe this is penance. Maybe this is his punishment for falling in love with a woman who he knew as a child. Red pushes the hangers around and then shuts the door. It's no game of hide and seek. He regards the rest of the empty room.

The empty room.

He walks to the dresser and runs his hand over the wood, looks at himself in the mirror. He puts his hat back on. "Is this it then?" He turns to Baz and asks.

"There's another room down the hall," Baz answers and leads the way. This room looks more lived in. It has the faint, feral scent of bodies, and the bed is rumpled and unmade. The closet door is open and the dresser drawers are askew, as if they were opened and shut in haste. Little pouches of clothing peek out of them.

"Is there a safe?"

"Next to the bed, Sir." Baz says. "But it needs a thumb print to open it. We weren't sure what you wanted us to do."

Red approaches the bedside and bends down to regard the small, metal box. As safes go, this one is not particularly complex or challenging. He could have his men open it without issue, but he's feeling a bit peeved. This empty apartment is not the plan. He is supposed to be holding Lizzie right about now, and it is annoying that he is standing here in what he can safely assume is Samar's messy boudoir, looking at sheets that seem very used and could that be a stain of some sort? His brain pieces the scene together, much as he had once constructed an antique music box with all those little nuts and bolts.

He remembers the overt reluctance in Samar's voice on the phone, how it bordered on defiance.

He tosses back the sheets and blankets on the bed so the mattress is completely exposed. There are two crumpled pairs of panties that look as though they were peeled off and carelessly kicked to the foot of the bed, under all the covers. He is tempted to pick them up, but his hand is still clutching the corner or bedclothes, and he can feel the keen eyes of Baz on him, watching his every move. He pulls the covers back up and forces his hand to release its grip on them.

"Well isn't this a fine kettle of fish," he mumbles. He extracts his gun from the holster on his waist. He aims it at the safe. He fires once and the door springs open. He chews the inside of his cheek and growls softly as he sees that inside it is empty, just like the rest of the apartment.

He's seen enough.

He turns on his heel and takes his leave of the little lover's nest he's found.


	36. Travelling

They are quiet for the first leg of the trip. Samar drives first, through the rest of the night and into the morning.

"Look at us, riding off into the sunrise," Liz says in a voice so dry it could be sand drifting from her lips. The sky is actually gray and bleak, not at all the charming sort of sunrise that would lift the soul or encourage any sort of hope.

"It's us," Samar answers. "We are together. Doesn't matter in which direction we are driving. Although actually, we are driving west, and will eventually be driving off into the sunset." Samar knows better than to reach for Liz's hand, although it is what she wants to do with every fiber of her being. It's too soon. Her lips are not even tempted to smile as she rotates her shoulder and feels the ache where Liz bit her hours ago. But the two of them are together, driving away into their destiny. Together. For the moment it is enough. It has to be.

"Right," Liz answers and folds her hands over her lap. She looks out the window as New York City starts to grow up on her right. They've driven five hours from DC. They've not been particularly careful about covering their tracks. Afterall, they want to be found.

Neither of them had been able to sleep. It had not taken very long for Samar to realize that the aggressive intimacy they had shared was not make up sex. They did not cuddle or hold one another or even talk after it was over. They had tossed and turned for a couple hours and then Liz had risen from the bed. "I'm going to pack," she had said in an eerily flat voice. Samar had risen and followed suit.

They met about 45 minutes later in the living room, several bags and their guns between them. Liz had picked up the letters from Reddington and placed them in a neat, rectangular pile on the counter of the island. She put her hand on the pile and pushed it down, compressing the air and compacting the sheets together to flatten the ridges where they were folded. Sighing, she removed her hand and they sprang up softly. Samar watched her do this, a curious sheen in her dark eyes.

"I don't know what I was thinking," Liz had said finally, in the same, flat tone.

"What do you mean?" Samar asked her.

"I don't know why I thought I would ever be free of him. Ever since that first day, it's like I've been completely at his mercy. And it's like he used the FBI to courier me straight to him by helicopter. This is going to sound terrible, evil almost. No. Forget it. I can't even say it. . ."

"Say it, Liz. It's okay."

Liz had looked up at Samar, finally making real eye contact with her for the first time since Samar had come home that evening, prepared for their date. Tears sparkled, sharp as shards of glass in her blue eyes as she whispered, "Sometimes, I'm actually glad my baby died. I'm actually thankful that she won't ever have to live in this world like me, to be used as a pawn in someone else's game of insanity, or whatever this is. I don't think I could bear to see her become like me." She had taken a deep breath in and inhaled it in a shaking sob. "What kind of a person does that make me? I always thought Reddington was the monster in this equation, but I'm no better than him. Maybe I'm just like him."

"Oh, Liz," Samar said. She stepped tentatively toward her and opened her arms. Liz took a step and fell softly into Samar's embrace. "It's all right. You are a good person. It is completely understandable that you would feel that way, after everything you have been through. It does not make you a monster. Not by a long shot." She kissed the top of her head and had started to rub her back, but Liz pushed Samar from her.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Liz asked as she straightened herself, cleared her throat, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"

"You still have a chance at a normal life, Samar. If you stay here, the FBI will protect you from Reddington if you need it. He doesn't even know about us yet. He doesn't have to know about us at all. You could tell him I got away from you before you could bring me to him. He'll come after me. He won't know you had a part in it. But if you come with me, there is no turning back for you. He'll know. He'll find out about us and he'll know you helped me. He'll come after us with everything he has. This doesn't have to be your fight. I'm giving you an out, here and now. I won't hold it against you. Those letters, Samar. . . they were intense. I don't think he'll ever let me go."

"Well then he's going to have to come through me because I'm not going to let you go either," Samar had declared, then added, "Unless of course you want me to let go. Then of course I would."

Liz had taken Samar's hand. "I don't want you to let go," she had whispered. "At least not yet."

"Then I won't."

"But I can't promise what I'll want after this is all said and done. I still don't know if I can trust you, let alone forgive you, Samar."

"That's okay. I'm still in. It's the least I can do for you."

With that, they had shouldered their bags and left the apartment.

Driving through the night and into the morning, they find there is surprisingly little to say. The distance grows between them in the silence. They stop at a gas station, sometime after the sun has risen, to get coffee, refuel the car, and use the bathroom. Liz climbs into the driver's seat and Samar looks at the GPS on her phone.

The property they have chosen is in upstate New York. They should be there early in the afternoon. It isn't much of a head start, but they should have time enough to establish themselves before he arrives. They stop for some supplies. Cans of food. Gas. Bullets. They find what they need and continue on.

As they drive through the hills and valleys of rural New York, they are focused on their mission. Liz examines the plans of the house they have chosen and they discuss how they will proceed. The distance between them is bridged by this common goal. And whether it is because they are tired from driving through the night, or because they are so focused on the details of their plan, they are so distracted that they do not see the truck that t-bones into them.


	37. Dreaming

Voices lilt and fade. Her eyes feel too heavy to open. She manages to part them for a second, but there is only blackness. At first she thinks maybe she has gone blind, but then she feels the rough material of a hood over her head. She squirms against the restraints binding her wrists behind her back, and her ankles to the legs of a chair.

"She's coming around, I think. You should go and get him." She thinks it is a man's voice, but everything is muffled under the hood. She inhales slowly, trying not to panic or draw attention to herself. Something is beeping faintly. She wonders if it is her heartbeat, then realizes that is a ridiculous thought.

Her memory is in bits and shards, like a jumbled up puzzle as she tries to figure out what's happening. The pieces start to come together as she remembers. She and Samar had been driving to a house in New York. They had stopped for gas and coffee. They had been looking at maps and plans of the house. Reddington. They were trying to lure Reddington to them so they could kill him. And then what? There had been a truck that came out of nowhere. Her head hurts like fucking hell, so she assumes that she hit her head.

Footsteps rise and fall. Her head feels leaden; all it wants is to slump down, chin to chest. Her stomach cramps with the urge to vomit and she swallows hard, refusing to puke on herself in the black hood. She thinks she could have a concussion. She thinks she should stay awake. She thinks this could be it. This could be the end.

Samar. She wonders where Samar is, if she is here somewhere, if she is even still alive. The thought comes suddenly and sharply and stabs her in the side of her chest as she inhales.

She loses consciousness again before she can even start to cry.

When she comes around again, it suddenly strikes her that she is not in a hospital.

Of course it should have been her first realization when she woke earlier, but her head does not seem to be functioning properly. She's grappling through the pathways of her brain, trying to sort things into the right order. She has been in a car accident. She's in terrible pain. She could possibly have a concussion or other life threatening injuries, but she is not in a hospital. She is tied to a chair with a hood over her head.

She thinks perhaps she is dreaming when she hears someone mutter, "Yeah, I'm sure it's here. It's the girl. No, she's not awake yet. She's been in and out." She hears a cell phone snap shut. Someone clears their throat and spits. Someone else, or maybe it is the same person says, "He's not going to be happy about the state she's in, you can be as sure of that as you can be of that chick being Masha Rostova."

Under the hood it is impossible to tell what time it is, or how long she has been like this. Her whole body aches. Her mouth is painfully dry. Even in the darkness she feels dizzy. It's hard to breathe. She strains her ears, trying to listen for Samar's voice, or even just to hear the other voices mention another woman, but there is nothing.

"Samar," she tries to call out, but her mouth is so dry that her voice is barely more than a rasp of wheezing breath. She wonders if she's broken a rib as she loses consciousness once more.

When she wakes again, she is lying in a bed. The hood is gone. The room is dimly lit when she opens her eyes. Her hands are bound to the metal sides of the bed, but they are bound in soft restraints, the kind used in hospitals for psychiatric patients. A hospital bed. "Oh thank god," she exhales. She wonders if the previous scenario, of being bound and hooded in a chair, had been nothing more than a feverish dream, but this thought is quickly chased by the realization she is still bound. She struggles against her restraints and a searing pain rips through her side. Definitely a broken rib. It hurts to breathe. She twists her hands in the padded cuffs and tries to lift her head off the pillow, but pain pushes and stills her in the bed.

"Relax," she hears. The voice has come from across the room. "You've been in an accident. You're safe now. Well, for the moment, anyway." There is someone there she cannot see. She thinks maybe she recognizes the voice, but she is not certain. Her head is still a foggy mess of agony and confusion.

"Samar?" She says. "Where-" she starts to ask, but then coughing robs her of her breath. Water. She needs to drink something.

As if reading her mind, a figure emerges from the shadows across the room, and approaches her with a cup of water. It is a man in an immaculate suit. Her eyes widen as she realizes it is not Red. He holds the cup out towards her and then when he realizes she is bound and cannot reach for the cup, he sticks a straw into it and angles the straw towards her lips. She sucks greedily at the water he has offered, and then tilts her chin up to get a better look at him.

"Easy," he says. "You don't want to choke. Little sips for now."

"Samar," she says again when she is done drinking. "Where is she?"

"Oh? The woman you were with in the car? I don't know. I had asked only for you, so I assume they left her where she was."

"If you hurt her," Liz starts.

"Hush, now. I've not done anything to her. Like I said, she was of no consequence to me. And I do apologize for the rather rough treatment of you by my crew. They have been dealt with accordingly. It was not my intention for this transaction to be so dramatic."

"Where am I?" She strains, trying to get her head up off the pillow so she can look around, but a wave of pain renders her weak. She whimpers.

"You have a broken rib and it would seem you've had a nasty blow to the head." His well manicured hand reaches out and presses a button on a machine next to her. "This should help with the pain."

"What day is it?" Liz manages as the drug floods her bloodstream.

"It's Friday."

"I've been here for four days?" She gasps. "I've got to go. Samar!" She tries to call out and is sorely disappointed that her voice is so faint.

"Now, now. Relax. You're not going anywhere, Masha. Or do you prefer to go by Elizabeth now?"

Liz's eyes snap open and try desperately to focus at the figure in front of her. Everything is blurry as she clings to the final shreds of consciousness with all her might.

"Who the hell are you?" She exhales the question and realizes it is suddenly not painful to breathe. Whatever he gave her is working quickly.

"I've been imagining this moment for the last twenty five years," he replies. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back before her, but then he, the room, and everything in it fade to black as she drifts off again into a deep oblivion.


	38. Reassemble

Samar is easily located by Reddington once she calls the Bureau for assistance in finding Liz. Samar had been airlifted to the hospital in Albany after the accident. Red brusquely parts the curtains of the bay in the emergency room where she is being held. She's expecting him, but it still startles her.

"Where is she?" He wastes no time with formality. There is a wild look in his eyes. Samar is taken aback by this feral glare. She's never seen Reddington as anything other than in consummate control of himself. For a moment she feels embarrassed for him, for his lack of composure.

"I don't know," she says in a low voice and looks down at her hands.

"Agent Navabi, you do not want to toy with me. I'll ask you once more, where is Elizabeth?"

"You can ask me as many times as you please and the answer will be the same every time. I don't know where she is. She was taken from the accident. I believe it was a professional job." She looks up at him with mournful eyes. He takes a breath as he regards her.

"We had a basset hound when I was a boy," he says, but his voice is serious, not light and confident as it usually is when he launches into one of his tall tales. "She had the saddest eyes. She was obsessed with food. Oh, she loved to eat! But even when she was munching on our table scraps, or enjoying a juicy bone, her eyes were still so sad. I have never met a human being in my travels on this planet who reminds me so much of her as you do right now, Samar."

She swings her legs over the side of the gurney. "They were speaking Russian, I believe. It all happened so quickly. The truck came out of nowhere."

"Russian?" He considers this detail for a moment. "What else can you tell me?"

"Not much, I'm afraid." Samar says. "I was knocked unconscious for a bit. When I came to, there was no trace of them."

"And Elizabeth? Was she injured?" The words come from his lips in a strangled rasp.

"I imagine she was. It was a bad collision. But like I said, I was not conscious."

"Where were you going?"

"Upstate."

"And why were you going there?"

She can tell he already knows the answer to the question. She stands and stares him down. "We were going to wait for you. She had the list of properties you had left her in the box."

"Mmmmm," he says, nodding slightly. "I take it you were not travelling there to await a joyous reunion with me."

"No."

"Why were you going?"

"She planned to kill you. We planned to kill you."

"Ahhh. And you were helping her?"

"Yes."

"Why, exactly?"

"Because I love her." Samar clutches at the hospital johnny she has been dressed in for the exam, and stares straight into the luminous green of his eyes, emboldened with the knowledge that now he knows. She has lost Liz. She has nothing left to lose. Despite her brazen courage in the face of Raymond Reddington, her knees buckle anyway at the thought that Liz is missing.

"Relax, Samar," he exhales and catches her around her waist to steady her. "I'm not going to kill you. At least not yet anyway. What are the extent of your injuries?"

"Dislocated elbow. A bump on the head. Nothing really."

"Good, good," he says looking around the slim bay. He locates the plastic bag of her personal effects and tosses it to her. "Given the extent of the blood at the scene, which I now know was not yours, I expect Elizabeth's injuries were far greater than yours. And given what she has already been through physically, she cannot afford any further trauma. Get dressed," he commands. "We don't have time to spare. You will have to forego the hospital jello."

"Where are you taking me?" Samar asks as she pulls her sweater and jeans from the bag.

"I have use of someone who can handle a gun," he says. He does not bother to turn away from her as she pulls on her jeans and then takes off the hospital robe to put on her sweater, rather he looks pointedly up and down over her fit form. "You must make a lovely couple," he says. His voice is bitter. "And you think you love her?"

"I don't think. I know."

"Yes," he sighs. "I figured as much. I was at your apartment yesterday. But my dear, you should know better than to double cross a double crosser." He clicks his tongue and wags a finger at her. "Although I do appreciate your candor."

"It doesn't matter. Now she knows I helped you and she hates me anyway, or at the very least will never trust me again. That is, if she is even still alive."

"Oh, she's alive."

Samar stifles a sob of relief against her fist. "Are you sure? You know this?"

"Yeah," he says. "I'm actually surprised that you would be so easily defeated, and assume her dead and gone. It's a bit disappointing, Samar, if I must be equally as candid."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I know who took her. I know how to find her. And you and I, my dear Agent, are going to set aside our conflicts of interest for the moment so that we can find her."

"Aram and Ressler are on their way. They can help us. We should wait for them." Samar begins. She buttons her jeans and digs into the pockets to find an elastic with which to pull back her hair.

"We are not going to need them." Red growls. "I'd like to keep this as intimate an affair as possible. Besides, I have Baz and Dembe and a few more men who are willing and able."

Within five more minutes, they are out of the hospital and on the road, heading south. Dembe drives. Samar sits in the back with Red. Her arm has been splinted and is in a sling to support the dislocated elbow. She takes the sling off and stretches her arm. It should be painful, but her adrenaline and cortisol have been so excruciatingly high all day, she barely feels anything.

Red makes calls. Externally, he is confident and jovial as ever as he calls in favors, but Samar can see the shadow that has descended upon him. She watches him look at maps and give directions to Dembe. "You're in your element," she says softly.

"Hmm?"

"It's like you are in complete control," she says. "You know where to go, who to call, and how to sound. It appears as though you have everything in the palm of your hand."

"It pays to know people," he says. He does not look up from whatever documents he is examining in his hand. "Or rather, I should say that I pay people to know and tell me things."

"Must be nice, having so much power and control. But it is what she hates about you," Samar says, slightly louder, and this comment gets his attention. He glares at her.

"Yes, I suppose you girls have had all sorts of pillow talk about me and about all of the various and sundry things Lizzie despises about me.."

"Actually, your name never came up while we were in bed. Not ever."

"Well, then," he chortles. "Aren't you saucy, Agent Navabi? Feeling fairly bold given your current predicament, aren't you?"

"On the contrary," she murmurs. "It feels quite vulnerable, this being in the same boat as you."

"Indeed. And in more ways than one do we sit here in this little ship we have built and intend to sail off into stormy seas to save our maiden fair. Tell me, how did Lizzie discover that you and I were in cahoots all along?"

"I would hardly call it 'cahoots', Reddington." She says. "I agreed to help keep her safe, and if you recall, that was about the only thing to which I agreed, despite your obscene insistence that I should drug and abduct her."

"Ah, so you want to argue semantics with me? Do you think you can justify sleeping with Elizabeth while she was in your charge, simply because it was not spelled out in our agreement?"

"No. I do not believe any justification is called for here. You'll do whatever you will with me, but I do not believe I need, nor do I plan to justify my love for Liz any more than you ever felt the need to justify yours. It is our actions for which we are accountable at the end of the day, and I would suggest you remember that when you pull the trigger or order it pulled on me. Not that she needs many more reasons to hate you."

"Possibly so, Samar, although I have not yet quite decided what I will do with you after we secure Lizzie. Surely you can see now that I was actually correct all along about Lizzie being in danger, and about the nefarious entities lurking in the shadows. Had you followed my directives, she would be safe right now. I think this might lend me a slight shred of credence and maybe even clemency. I know how Lizzie works, and I've known her longer than you. Sure she gets angry, goes off to lick her wounds and stew in her fury, but eventually she returns, and she returns to me. Time and again. It is how we work, Lizzie and I. I admit you were an interesting, and very unexpected diversion, but make no mistake, I am the one who knows Elizabeth Keen, and I am the one who will stand, proudly on deck with her as our ship sails away leaving you marooned on a very desolate shore. Perhaps that will even be punishment enough for you, my leggy compatriot." Red finishes his speech and extracts a cigar from his pocket. He does not intend to light it in the car, out of courtesy for Dembe, who hates the smell of smoke in close quarters, however he finds he needs something to do with his hands, so he busies himself sniffing and stroking it as the car drifts along the road.

"I will not argue with you over who knows her better, but I will say this: I was more than a diversion. What she and I had, even briefly, was more than most ever know or are allowed in a lifetime. It was more than a diversion and it is something you cannot erase, Reddington. Even if you kill me, what was shared between Liz and me will not die. You may have worldly resources and dominance. You may even win her heart and hand. If she is alive and safe, I will be able to live with that, eventually, much as it will pain me, because I understand you will never know or destroy the weeks and beauty that was between us. It was something your money and power could never attain."

Red turns his entire body so he is angled toward Samar in the back seat. He leans slightly closer to her, and says, "Choose your words carefully." He taps her shoulder with his cigar. "I am a generous man, however I have never particularly enjoyed sharing. You wear my patience thin with these declarations, pretty as they are."

Samar turns away from him and looks out the window to hide the tears that have spilled from her eyes onto her cheeks. Part of her does not care what Reddington does to her, or if he sees her cry. But another part of her feels the grief she holds for Liz is something private and sacred and not to be shared with him. They travel in silence for some time and Samar tries to focus on the task at hand as opposed to imagining all of the fates into which her beloved could be caught at the moment. She reminds herself that Liz is strong, that she is a warrior, that wherever she is, she will fight and survive.

"The letters," Samar says. "It was the letters."

"What?"

"You asked how she found out I had been working with you. She finally read your letters. They had been accumulating at the post office along with her other mail, and when she picked it all up, she got your letters. She confronted me. She nearly killed me, and herself."

"I see," Red grumbles.

"I don't think you do see," Samar risks.

"Then illuminate me, please," he says, and he sounds tested.

"She was so desperate that you not be pulling the strings in her life that she thought she would rather be dead. She held a gun to her head."

"And you talked her out of it?"

"Yes."

"Then I suppose I owe you for that, at least," he sighs and lowers his face into his hands. He rubs at his eyes.

"I beg of you to consider that," Samar continues. "I can certainly live with her never forgiving me for my part in this drama, but I can only do so knowing she remains in the world, free and safe."

"She will forgive me. She will. And in my protection, she will know freedom, or at least she will know as much freedom as will ever be allowed to the likes of her and me. I will care for her, keep her. . . safe, make sure she never feels the urge to make such a foolish gesture ever again. It has to be." He pauses to bite his lip in order to stop the flow of tears threatening his eyes. "It is a strange symbiosis that Elizabeth and I share. We always have, and we always will. My hands wash hers, and in doing so I atone for every other wrong I've wrought. Even when she hadn't a clue of my presence on this earth, we were still one organism, pulsating in time to our very own rhythm. Even when she thinks she loathes and despises me, we continue to exist as one single entity. Without her, Samar, I have been taken apart, rendered nearly useless. I need her so I might reassemble myself, begin to function yet again. And she needs me. There is no one without the other. It has to be. It is the only way it can be, for either of us." He turns to watch the scenery zip by outside the window.

Samar watches as his shoulders rise and fall in shallow breath, as she constructs a litany of things to say in response to his bizarre declaration, but she turns her thoughts instead to prayers that they find Liz, and that they find Liz alive and well. Then, and only then, will she welcome whatever else may come.


	39. Many

There are many things he needs from her. He looks over her unconscious body as though it is a buffet set out before him. His salvation. At least that bitch, Katerina, did one thing right in keeping this little pup.

 _His pup._

His daughter.

He sneers at the word, _daughter_ , as it passes through his head. He has none of the attachment or affection to make him a proper father. And good thing. It will make taking from her so much easier.

She looks like Katerina, lying there, pale and scowling in her sleep. Her lips are almost violet in the chill of the room they have set up to procure his needs, but in her sleep, she does not shiver. It is nearly infuriating, this strength of hers. Her health. For a moment, he is so angry he could spit, but instead, he grabs at the top of the covers that shield her small body and throws them back. She is clad in a thin hospital gown. Her legs are bare. Her feet toe in slightly. She is separated from the frigid air by little more than a few threads, but still she does not shiver.

"Sir," the voice startles him. He does not replace the covers on top of her, but turns to regard the doctor who has entered the makeshift hospital room. He's holding a clipboard with what Kirk presumes are Masha's medical records. "We have the results."

"And?" He expectorates angrily.

"You were right. She is a match."

He claps his hands together and rubs them, as though trying to warm himself. "Excellent!" He cheers, but without mirth, and then adds, "But let's lower the temperature in here a few more degrees. I want to keep her fresh."

"Very well, Sir," the doctor says. His tone is amenable enough, but the dubiously raised eyebrow does not escape Kirk.

"You think me malicious, Doctor?"

"Not at all, Sir. It's just that she's so frail and if we inadvertently induce hypothermia, it could place her at risk."

"You're concerned with the risk to her?" Kirk snarls. "You would do well to question the risk you pose to yourself when you question me, Doctor. Do I make myself clear?"

"Ah, yes. Of course. I do apologize. When would you like to begin?"

"Immediately." Kirk says, and turns from Masha to face the doctor. He smiles at the doctor for the first time, and notices that the doctor turns away as though he is uncomfortable with his employer's pleasure. "Need I remind you who you work for?"

"No. Absolutely not." The doctor coughs.

"Let's start with her blood. Take as much as you can without damaging the other organs. Then we will get the marrow. Then the kidney. And at last, the liver."

"She's weak," the doctor says. "It will be a miracle if she survives long enough to extract everything. Might I recommend waiting a few days? Strengthen her up a bit so that your material is in optimal condition?"

"You may recommend no such thing," Kirk responds. "I've waited long enough already."

"Even a day, Sir, would be beneficial."

"Isn't that what life support is for?"

"Not if her organs fail before we can procure them. She's dehydrated. It is possible she could go into multi-organ failure before we are able to get everything you need, and in that event, life support would be futile."

Kirk considers this information, glancing back and forth between Masha and the doctor. He runs his tongue over his teeth. "All right," he says at last. "One day. We are on a very tight time table with this. I will give you one day. That's twenty for hours, starting as of this very minute. And Doc, I don't think if you will want to know what will become of you and your entire family if you miss your deadline. You see what I am willing to do to my own daughter. Just imagine what I would be delighted to do to yours." His eyes are flinty as a shark as he smiles. He begins to walk away from the hospital bed, sensing the doctor's relief as he gets closer toward the door. He turns once more to face the physician, who has moved to the bedside and is noting the vitals of the woman lying unconscious in the bed, her arms cuffed to the metal sides. "Seven degrees, I think. Bring the temperature in here down to fifty three."

"Yes, Mr. Kirk. I understand." The doctor looks back down at the makeshift chart for his patient as Kirk takes his leave of the grim tableau.


End file.
